Rissa May: My Asshole always open!

A cigar shop employee woman is at the service of an exacting customer.

The bell above the door chimed softly, a delicate sound that belied the weight of what was about to happen. Sasha looked up from the humidor she’d been organizing and felt the air in the room shift.

She knew customers. It was her job to know them—to read their intentions before they spoke, to anticipate their needs before they articulated them. In the three years she’d worked at Castillo’s Cigars, she’d served everyone from nervous first-timers buying gifts for bosses they didn’t understand, to connoisseurs who could identify a cigar’s origin by scent alone.

But she’d never served anyone like him.

The man who entered was tall, silver-haired, dressed in a suit that cost more than Sasha’s monthly rent. His shoes made no sound on the hardwood floors—a trick of wealth, she’d learned, moving through the world without announcing yourself. His eyes swept the room with the precision of someone cataloging inventory, missing nothing, judging everything.

“Good afternoon,” Sasha said, stepping forward with her practiced smile. “Welcome to Castillo’s. Are you looking for something specific today?”

The man’s gaze settled on her, and Sasha felt the weight of it like a physical thing. Not unpleasant, exactly. Just… thorough. Like being examined under glass.

“I’m always looking for something specific,” he said. His voice was low, cultured, the kind of voice that expected to be listened to. “The question is whether you have it.”

Sasha held his gaze. “We have one of the largest collections in the city. If we don’t have it, we can order it.”

“How refreshing. A woman who understands that not everything can be found on shelves.” He moved past her toward the walk-in humidor, gesturing for her to follow. “Come. I have very particular tastes.”

The humidor was climate-controlled, filled with the rich, earthy scent of aging tobacco. Rows of cedar shelves held boxes from Cuba, Nicaragua, the Dominican Republic—every country, every blend, every price point imaginable. Sasha had memorized them all within her first month.

The man ran his fingers along the boxes, not opening them, just touching. Assessing. “I’m looking for something rare. A Partagás Lusitanias, but not just any. From 2005. The year before they changed the fermentation process.”

Sasha blinked. That was specific. Almost impossibly specific. “That’s a very particular request. Those are hard to come by.”

“Hard is not impossible.” He turned to look at her, and something in his expression shifted—warmth, maybe, or the suggestion of it. “I’ve been smoking for forty years. I’ve learned that the best things in life require effort to obtain. The question is whether you’re willing to make that effort for me.”

There was something in the way he said “for me” that made Sasha’s breath catch. Not inappropriate—he was too polished for that. But weighted. Intentional.

“We have a private collection in the back,” she heard herself say. “Not everything is displayed. If you’ll give me a moment, I can check.”

His smile was slow, satisfied. “I’ll wait.”

Sasha retreated to the back room, her heart beating faster than the situation warranted. She told herself it was the rarity of the request, the challenge of pleasing such an exacting customer. But she knew, even then, that it was more.

The private collection was kept in a separate, locked humidor—reserved for the shop’s most serious clients. Sasha’s fingers trembled slightly as she sorted through the boxes, searching for the year, the brand, the impossible specificity he’d demanded.

She found it. Of course she found it. One box, unopened, perfect condition, exactly as he’d described.

When she emerged, box in hand, the man was examining a display of cutters on the counter. He looked up as she approached, and something flickered in his eyes—approval, maybe. Or anticipation.

“You found it.”

“One box. Unopened. The price is…” She named a figure that made her wince internally.

He didn’t flinch. “Open it.”

Sasha hesitated. “Sir, most customers prefer to—”

“I’m not most customers.” His voice was gentle but firm. “I need to see them. Touch them. Smell them. A cigar is like a person—you can’t know it by reading the label. You have to experience it.”

Sasha opened the box.

The cigars inside were beautiful—perfectly constructed, dark and oily, giving off that unmistakable aroma of aged tobacco and promise. The man leaned in, not touching, just breathing. His eyes closed briefly, and when they opened, they found hers.

“Perfect,” he murmured. But he wasn’t looking at the cigars.

Sasha’s throat went dry. “Will there be anything else?”

The man considered her for a long moment. Then he reached into his jacket and produced a card, placing it on the counter between them. Heavy cream stock, embossed lettering, nothing but a name and a phone number.

“Julian DeVere,” she read aloud.

“That’s me.” His smile was subtle but real. “I have a standing order at this shop. Once a month, I’ll request something specific. Sometimes it will be a cigar. Sometimes…” He paused, letting the word hang. “Sometimes it will be something else. Are you the person I should ask for?”

Sasha should have said no. Should have referred him to the owner, to another employee, to anyone but her. But something in his eyes—that same weight, that same thoroughness—kept her still.

“I’m here every day,” she said. “Ask for me.”

Julian nodded, as if he’d expected nothing less. He selected a single cigar from the box, tucking it into his inside pocket. “I’ll take the rest. Have them delivered to this address.” He slid another card across the counter—his business card, this time with an address. “And Sasha?”

The sound of her name in his mouth did something dangerous to her composure.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for understanding that some requests require more than just inventory.” He turned to leave, then paused at the door. “I’ll be back next month. I hope you will be too.”

The bell chimed softly as the door closed behind him. Sasha stood frozen, the box of cigars in her hands, Julian DeVere’s card burning a hole in her pocket.

She didn’t know what she’d just agreed to. But she knew, with absolute certainty, that she’d be here next month. Waiting. Wondering. Ready to serve whatever request he brought with him.

Some customers, she was learning, didn’t just want cigars. They wanted an experience. And Julian DeVere, whoever he was, seemed determined to make Sasha part of his.