Colors Between Us

The Bar

A siren sounds from beside me as an ambulance struggles through traffic. The loud reoccurring wail drowns out the honks from ignorant cars waiting to get to their destination. Maybe that's the twisted beauty of New York City. No matter the situation, individuals here only care about themselves. Or at least the citizens fake that pretentious lifestyle until they end up desperate for attention. So far from reality that when they try to return, they end up in a forsaken city, alone to fend for themselves. Maybe that's why I don't feel too bad about walking into this neon-lit pub at the edge of midnight. There is a way to deal with my problems healthily. But why do that when I can talk to an exhausted bartender instead?

A bell chimes at the door, alerting everyone in the restaurant of my arrival. A few heads turn as the door closes but not enough to make me uncomfortable. The sound of light conversation and soft rock makes its way to the front door. It serves as an invitation to stay. I brush off the heavy puffer jacket on my back and put it on the back of the barstool in front of me. Even though it is mid-October, it sure does feel like the beginning of Winter.

"What can I get for you, Hun?" An older man with a scruffy beard stands before me, waiting for an answer.

"Could I get a mango mojito?" I ask as I place my dead phone down on the countertop.

"You got it." The man confirms and walks away to grab rum from another shelf along the wall.

I glance at the other customers sitting at the bar. Everyone is a small distance apart, allowing small talk. The woman closest to me chats quietly on the phone, gossiping about what seems to be a coworker. A few chairs away sit a couple who mingle over God-knows-what while sipping on fruity martinis. At the very end of the bar sits a man in his late 40s, who is typing angrily on his phone, only stopping every few seconds to take a large gulp of beer.

My drink is placed on a coaster on the cold marble countertop in front of me. I move the coaster closer and take a long sip out of the thin black straw. The rum leaves a warm sensation lingering in my throat while the mint tingles within my mouth. As I take another sip of my drink, the door beside me chimes, welcoming a new guest. After a few seconds, the chair beside me pulls back. A blonde around my age hops onto the chair. Something is different about her. Black sunglasses lie on top of her perfectly straightened hair, accompanied by minimal gold jewelry. Her outfit screams wealthy, but subtly due to how she pairs a black dress with an oversized blazer and Gucci tights. Her shoes offset the rest of the outfit, plain black combat boots.

The bartender rushes over to the newly arrived blonde. "Long time, no see." He comments while pouring out a cocktail for the girl.

"I hope you know that I've been to ten different bars since the tour started, and no one can make a Manhattan like you, Ed." She admits.

"I already told you guys I would be your bartender for a pretty penny. No one has these magical hands." Ed shrugs as if the girl is missing out on the opportunity of a lifetime.

"Come on now. You know that Mrs. Jones would give you hell if you left New York." She takes a sip of her drink with the exact expression I had earlier. Maybe he does have magic hands.

"I guess you're right." He sets a handful of clean glasses down on a shelf behind him. "Make sure you tell the boys that I want to see them before you guys leave town again."

She sets down her drink and scoffs. "You know they won't pass up a round of shots."

They laugh in unison before Ed walks away. The blonde settles into her chair before she taps her phone to check for notifications. The conversation left me curious. Why is she gone so often? Why does she need a personal bartender? There is no doubt that she is famous in some way.