Finding Ourselves, Together.

Arny--2.8.22

5:43 pm

Shit shit shit.

I park my motorcycle and clamber through the back door of Bar Lupin, clocking in with two minutes to spare. I sigh with a mix of relief and exhaustion, having woken up 30 minutes ago and running off of nothing but a cup of coffee and adrenaline.

"You're late."

I curse myself for not slipping in like I usually do. "Hey, Rick!" I turn to greet my boss, a plastic grin plastered on my face. "I wouldn't say late exactly; I just made it in the nick of time." My cheerful facade slowly diminishes when his stone-cold face doesn't move an inch, signaling that he's not falling for my act. I'm almost surprised when he blinks. I let out a nervous chuckle as my gaze lowers to my feet.

"I'm sorry. I won't let it happen again."

"That's what you said two nights ago, Arnold," he spits. "Cassidy's already gone, so get your ass behind the counter and take care of our customers." Giving me no time to answer, Rick turns on his heel and trudges away.

I press my trembling fists to my forehead, my knuckles turning white. I've worked under Rick for a while and no matter what I do, he never seems pleased. No idea who shit in his cereal, but he doesn't have to take it out on me. I shake my head to get rid of the helmet hair and proceed to the house.

Although my boss treats me like a pest, I really like this job. It's a small, modest joint, complete with dim lights, soft jazz, and not many customers--which is great because I'm not exactly a people person.

Before I'm fully prepared for social interaction, a slim blonde woman slinks up to the bar. She's wearing a glittering purple dress that rides up when she sits on the stool, barely covering her thighs. Her eyelashes look natural yet massive, making her blue, flirtatious eyes pop.

"Snakebite," she demands.

God, I hate rude customers. Would it kill you to say please?  I wonder. I pluck the bottle from the shelf behind me, pour it into a shot glass, and slide it to her. She gazes up at me expectantly. "Well?"

I have no idea how to respond to this. The woman rolls her eyes like she shouldn't even need to explain, and gestures to the bottle and stack of shot glasses. "Take one with me." I recognize this not as a request, but a command. My eyes flicker around the bar nervously, and I, unfortunately, make eye contact with Rick, who's chatting with one of our patrons. He glares at me from across the room. "The customer is always right," his eyes say. I look back at the woman across from me, her manicured nails drumming the counter, her shoulder exposed from a fallen spaghetti strap. I quickly pour a shot and down it before she can say another word.

She sighs dramatically and shakes her head like a disappointed teacher. "Silly boy," she starts, making my jaw clench. "You have to take another one now since you didn't clink my glass."

This chick is really starting to piss me off.

I begin to rapidly count the light bulbs around the room to calm down. Putting on my best fake smile I do as I'm told. I make a big show of clinking her glass, and we knock back in unison. She looks pleased, bearing her too-white teeth and salmon pink gums at me, in what seems to be a smile.

"Diana," she tells me. As if it holds any value.

"Pleasure," I grunt.

Diana begins to rant about her boy problems--as if I care--downing shot after shot, drinking like a fish. And making me drink with her, which is apparently fine in Rick's book because he looks...proud? Maybe it's just the alcohol.

𝟏𝟐:𝟑𝟐 𝐚𝐦

My shift just ended. My boss is clapping me on the back, winking and nodding. Diana's sticky lips ghost my jaw while we climb into the cab.

Some shitty motel. Mascara on my shirt.

Her dress is on the floor,

she's looking up at me.

Pain sears through my back,

the claws of a hungry woman.

I oblige.

I don't feel a thing.