𝙁𝙄𝙉𝙀 𝙅𝙀𝙒𝙀𝙇𝙍𝙔, 𝙤𝙘𝙚𝙖𝙣𝙨 𝙚𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩

𝙥𝙖𝙧𝙩 𝙤𝙣𝙚

TW: verbal and physical abuse

The sky was overcast, and the wind howled in your ears—nothing unexpected for mid-November weather. You wiped the cold tears from your flushed cheeks with the back of your gloved hand, taking a deep breath before shoving your hands into your coat pockets and walking away. You had no destination in mind. The heated argument with your boyfriend replayed in your thoughts, and the stinging ache on your cheek served as a harsh reminder of that reality. Wrapped tightly in your coat, you hug yourself, trying to stave off the chill. Suddenly, a crack of thunder splits the sky, and within moments, rain begins to pour relentlessly. "Ugh!" you exclaim, glaring upward in frustration. Seeking shelter, you turn the corner, looking around for some type of business. 

A vintage, slightly crooked neon sign flickered, the word "BAR" glowing faintly red against the gray backdrop of the sky. Below it, a small, rusted awning provided minimal shelter, dripping with rain that had collected from the downpour. The doorway was framed by narrow windows fogged from the warmth inside, offering a blurry glimpse of dim lighting and shadowy figures within. A weather-beaten chalkboard stood propped up near the entrance, its message barely legible after being smeared by the rain. It would have to do.

Pulling open the dirty glass door, you rush inside, the wind closing the door against your back. The warmth from the building instantly envelops you. With a sigh of relief, you begin to wipe your feet on a grey ribbed mat on the dark and aging wooden floor. Glancing around, you only saw three people. One man, sitting in a corner booth with a half-empty pint of beer placed in front of him, and two women at the main bar—a blonde with her back turned behind the counter and a brunette sitting at the barstool, with two empty shot glasses and a half-drank glass of wine in front of her. A drink wouldn't hurt. Approaching the bar, you heard the hushed voices of the two women, arguing about something. Before you could pinpoint it, the blonde spun around, her jaw clenched, and her ringed hands balled into fists. She opens her mouth to say something to the brunette but cuts herself short, noticing you.

"Do you need something?" she dismissively asks, eyeing you up and down. You must look terrible—from the storm and from the fight. She's dressed in a tailored black blazer with satin lapels, worn over a fitted, deep emerald-green silk blouse, with the top two buttons unbuttoned. A pair of slim-cut leather pants and heeled ankle boots are paired to complete the look. Around her neck, she wears a thin silver chain. A touch of smoky gray eyeshadow and perfectly smudged black eyeliner frame her piercing blue eyes and her slightly upturned lips are painted a muted berry shade.

You blink, clearing your throat. "Some vodka or tequila would be nice," you reply, sitting two barstools away from the other woman, who was now staring at you too. "Something strong."

"Let me see your ID, babe." The blonde chews on a piece of gum, her lips parting to reveal her pearly-white teeth. She reaches her hand over the counter, her blue eyes locked onto yours.

"For her age or her address?" The brunette woman smirks at you and chuckles. Lines crinkle around her almond-shaped brown eyes that were accentuated by some black cat eyeliner. She's wearing a light brown mock neck and a pair of black pants. 

"For your age," enunciates the blonde, giving the brunette a side-eye. 

You smile, your hand reaching into your coat pocket, searching for your wallet. "Fuck," you whisper under your breath. "I must've forgotten my wallet at home," you explain.

The blonde eyes you skeptically, a slight raise of her brow, and then she exhales slowly through her nose, chewing her gum as if debating whether to believe you. Her gaze flickers toward the brunette for a split second before returning to you, the challenge in her eyes lingering. "You sure you're not just tryin' to pull a fast one?" she asks.

"I'm not," you say, your voice softer now, almost apologetic. "I swear, I just... forgot it."

"When's your birthday, hon?" the brunette chimes in again, straightening her posture on the barstool. Her eyes rake over you, almost like she was sizing you up.