Finding You, Looking for Me: A Henry Cavill FanFic

Part 2: A Night at Work, 5 Years Ago

Five years ago, I was living in the suburbs of Chicago. I pulled my snow boots on to leave for work. My makeup was applied and I had sprayed my new fragrance on my hoodie, t-shirt, and coat. My hair was a mess, but I had convinced myself that my unruly black hair was part of my "look." I was scheduled behind the bar at 5pm. I collected all my work necessities—my thermoflask of ice water, my flatbar, a few kolonopin, a few adderall, and contact lens solution. I tossed everything into my big, yellow handbang, and made my way to my garage. My trusty Mini Cooper Countryman, awaited me, caked in road salt and in need of a trip to the mechanic. I hopped in, started her up, and ignored the numerous maintenance lights. Throwing the gear in drive, I zipped down the road towards work.

My commute was short. I worked at a historic landmark of a bar—first bar built in the area after prohibition was repealed. At eighty five years old, the bar had seen many transformations to coincide with bar trends. The owners always kept the name of the bar intact—Braxie's.

I tore into the parking lot—not because I was late, just because I enjoyed driving like I was rally car racing. A few smokers lingering near the front door, watched me park and gather my things before jumping out of the car.

"Hey, Sarah," I heard.

"Hi, guys," I responded as I closed the car door and locked the doors with my key FOB.

"How are you, honey?" someone asked me.

I smiled at the collection of people talking to me as I slid between them and pulled the door of the bar open. "You know me, I'm tired. What else?" I had been here yesterday—I had nothing new to talk about. Honestly, I wasn't even tired. I was just indifferent.

I was working with Paul tonight. He was about twenty-seven, tall, handsome, and well received by the female clientele at the bar. He had a classic bar man esthetic—a scruffy black beard, longish, curly locks that sat atop his tightly shaved sides—clad in black jeans and a Slayer t-shirt beneath his hoodie. We nodded hello to one another.

We had worked together for a few years. January nights at the bar were not particularly busy or lucrative. We didn't know exactly what to expect that night. I figured we'd order dinner, and talk shit to one another, per usual. We spent a lot of time trying to plot our next moves in life, talking about our kids, and coming up with promotional bar events. This night probably wouldn't be much different.

We spent the night waiting on a slow and steady stream of bar patrons. Every so often, either Paul or I would pour up shots bought by the guests, and we'd all cheers one another in celebration of the mundane January night. I cracked into our second bottle of Jeppson's Malort, and poured up a round for a friend who had popped in to visit Paul and I. We chatted about the weather and a few new beers on tap. I let Paul take the conversation over and I slipped outside for a cigarette.

I pulled out a Dunhill, and lit it up, pacing through the sparsely filled parking lot. I saw head lights pull in behind me and looked over my shoulder. A car whirred past me and pulled into the parking spot beside my Mini. The car was nothing flashy, maybe a Toyota or a Chevy—nothing I could note in the dark. Snow flurries were coming down around me.

"Hey!"

I turned around at the sound. A man walked towards me, and I stopped my pacing to allow him to reach me. I took a pull off my cigarette.

"Yeah?" I asked him. The street light poured across his face as he moved closer to me.

"Can I bum a cig?" he asked me. I immediately noticed his voice. It was deep and he had what I thought was an English accent. An English accent in the suburbs of Chicago was not very common, though I happened to have two close British friends from the area, so I wasn't all that thrown off. As he got closer to me, his face is what shook me. He was stunning. I blinked furiously at the sight of his face. Without making a sound, I reached into my coat pocket and grabbed my pack of Dunhills and handed them to him. "Thank you," he responded.