A professional cuddler, a prostitute, a ghostwriter, a hitman, a church leader, and a professional gambler walk into a bar. The bartender looks up and says, "What is this, some kind of joke?"

Midnight wasn't there yet, but you could smell the approaching hour. The way the city held its breath, a silent countdown. As if midnight was the turning point, a line in the sand between the night's possibilities and the crushing reality of tomorrow's hangover.<br><br>I, Layla, professional cuddler extraordinaire, didn't drink. But I loved the atmosphere of the bar. The way the dimmed lights created an illusion of belonging, of strangers becoming friends over whiskey and worn-out dreams. My client for the night, middle-aged Mark, was busy eyeing the selection of craft beers, completely unaware that I charged by the hour and that the clock was ticking.<br><br>"You know, with a face like yours, you shouldn't be selling your time. You should be selling your body," said a hoarse voice from next to me.<br><br>I turned to face the speaker. It was Samantha, a prostitute and a regular here, with a kind smile and tired eyes.<br><br>"Samantha, you know I'm not that kind of girl."<br><br>"Oh, I'm just joking, sweetie. But seriously, how's business?"<br><br>"Thriving. The world isn't built for touch, and people are starting to understand that. How about you?"<br><br>"As long as there are lonely men out there with libidos intact, I've got a job," she replied with a chuckle.<br><br>We talked some more, and I introduced her to Mark, who was still browsing the beer selection. Just then the door swung open and a man in a crumpled suit walked in. He looked like he had been up for too long.<br><br>"John, you look like a zombie. Are you okay?" I asked, genuinely concerned.<br><br>John was a ghostwriter, and during his busy periods, his lack of sleep was almost legendary. You could see the exhaustion in his eyes, the way his body leaned away from every step as if he was being pulled down by gravity itself.<br><br>"Just need a drink, Layla," he replied, his voice barely audible. "And maybe a hug."<br><br>I squeezed his hand gently and then took Samantha aside and whispered, "He's yours."<br><br>Samantha smiled knowingly and slid into the stool next to John, putting her hand on his knee. Soon they were engrossed in conversation. For Samantha, it didn't matter if he paid her or not; sometimes, people just needed comfort. And that was exactly what John needed – comfort.<br><br>I glanced around and noticed Pastor Tom making his way towards us. He was a peculiar one, leading his flock during the day and then drowning his demons in whiskey during the night. Every now and then, he'd glance at me with an intense desire in his eyes and then look away, ashamed. I knew he fantasized about me, but he'd never act on it. That was why I loved him, in a platonic sort of way.<br><br>Right then, the door swung open once more and a tall figure strode in. His black suit seemed out of place in this shabby bar, and his piercing green eyes scanned the room until they landed on me. He was a man of few words but of unmissable presence.<br><br>"You're not here for a drink, Francis," I said, breaking the silence between us. About a year ago, he'd walked into the bar, and I'd mistaken him for a hitman. Turned out, he was a professional gambler.<br><br>"Not tonight, Layla. I'm looking for someone," he said, his eyes locking onto Pastor Tom.<br><br>The pastor, startled, quickly grabbed his drink and made a hasty exit, mumbling something about an emergency. About then, Mark walked back towards me, confused.<br><br>"What wasn't he here for?" he asked.<br><br>"Oh, Francis over here is a professional gambler. I thought he was a hitman when he first walked in, but it turns out he's just here for the cards," I explained, gesturing towards Francis.<br><br>Mark's eyes widened. "A hitman?" he asked, horrified.<br><br>I chuckled. "No, he's not. Don't worry. Let's find you a beer."<br><br>As I helped Mark pick a beer, I noticed Francis sit next to John and listen intently as John showed off the latest book he'd ghostwritten. About then, Samantha slid back into the empty stool next to me.<br><br>"How's he doing?" she asked.<br><br>"About the same."<br><br>Right then, Pastor Tom burst back in, panicked, and grabbed my arm, pulling me away. "Layla, I don't have much time. I have to tell you something. Are you listening?" he asked, his voice trembling.<br><br>"Yes, what is it?"<br><br>"I have a secret. But I think you'll understand. You're the only one who'll get it," he said, fidgeting with his collar.<br><br>"I'm listening," I replied calmly.<br><br>"I'm not a pastor," he rushed out. "I gamble, Layla. I lose, always. And now Francis is going to kill me."<br><br>"Oh, Tom, you don't have to lie to me," I said comfortingly, putting a hand on his shoulder.<br><br>"I'm not lying. I have proof."<br><br>"Tom, I know you. You're a wonderful man. Your flock loves you. And Francis is a gambler. I saw him sitting over there, talking to John."<br><br>"What? That's impossible. I saw him, Layla. He had a knife. And his eyes, they were green."<br><br>I chuckled. "His eyes are green because of the bar's lighting, Tom. It plays tricks on the mind."<br><br>Tom shook his head. "I know what I saw. But I'm glad you know what I'm capable of, Layla. You're a comfort, even if it's the last time."<br><br>With that, Tom walked out of the bar, determined.<br><br>"He's really not a pastor, you know. He's a hitman," said a voice from behind me.<br><br>I turned to face the speaker, a tall figure in a black suit with piercing green eyes.<br><br>"Francis, you shouldn't be here. Tom thinks you're going to kill him," I said, alarmed.<br><br>"I'm not going to kill him, Layla. But he's not a pastor. And if he doesn't pay me back the money he owes me, I will have to hurt him. He knows that."<br><br>I sighed. This wasn't good. I'd gotten myself into Tom's mess. But that's why I was here, to help people like him.<br><br>"Francis, I know you're not a hitman. You're a gambler."<br><br>"How do you know that?" he asked, surprised.<br><br>"Because I've seen you play cards with John."<br><br>He paused. "Okay, fine. I'm a gambler. But Pastor Tom isn't a pastor. He's a hitman."<br><br>And with that, Francis walked out of the bar, leaving me alone with Mark and John. Mark was sipping on his beer, a happy smile on his face. John was passed out, a bottle of whiskey clutched in his hand.<br><br>"You know, Layla, this is the most interesting night I've had in a long time. But I think I'm ready to go home now," Mark said, standing up.<br><br>I smiled. I'd done my job. "Let me walk you out, Mark."<br><br>As I stepped out into the cool night air, I realized that I loved this city. Its secrets, its lies, its pretenses. It was the city of broken dreams and false promises, but it was also the city of love and hope.<br><br>And in the midst of all that beauty, I just cuddled people for a living.<br><br>[The End.]