“I hear you,” Fallon acknowledged without ever taking her eyes off the bottles in her hand. She’s an under-pourer, notoriously so. But she covers it up with bar tricks, like flipping over a bottle in her other hand. Or in this case, the awaking shaker.
He was a tapper, and a nasty one at that. He’d tap the god damn score to Bohemian Rhapsody with his finger against the glass if she let him. Sometimes adding a clearing of the throat to really push the point home.
Fallon had gotten used to it, but god did it irk her on nights when it was this busy.
So in the middle of making one drink, she’s already preparing his, going back and forth until both are out and served as quickly as possible.
Then she turns, and sees someone else ready to make their order. “Sorry about the wait, what can I getcha?”