{ ᴏɴᴄ ʜᴏɴᴏʀᴀʙʟᴇ ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴ & ᴀᴍʙᴀꜱꜱᴀᴅᴏʀꜱ' ᴘɪᴄᴋ }
Tate has been the bartender at The Imp's Bottle for years. The dive bar attracts a trickling array of unusual patrons, but due to his social anxiety, Tate avoids conversation and interaction.
...Until a...
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It was the first snowfall of the not-quite-winter. Mid-November. Such a wild card time of year. Sometimes mild, sometimes frigid, always a gamble. The storm blew in out of nowhere, and now six inches of snow covered the sidewalk outside, keeping away the handful of regular patrons we usually had on Friday nights.
I found myself wondering if it was snowing where K was. Was November in Scotland traditionally cold? Given the northerly latitude and longitude, I assumed so. A chill in the air didn’t necessarily mean snowfall, however. They weren’t mutually exclusive. Still, I pictured snowflakes dotting K’s red hair, her cheeks and nose pink from the chill. Was she a mittens or a gloves girl? Trivial, maybe, but I wanted to know.
What time was it in Scotland? It was 11:25 pm at The Imp's Bottle.
Ali Cat stalked back and forth in front of the large picture windows, glaring at the snow and cursing under her breath. Without patrons, there’d be no tips. Hence, no reason for her to be here. A fact of which she reminded me every five minutes.
“This is so pointless,” she muttered for the umpteenth time, looking around the empty pub. “Ugh, this is literally the biggest waste of my time ever.”
I glanced up from my newspaper. “Do you have homework with you? You could do that until someone comes in.”
She gaped at me like I’d just sprouted gills. “Are you kidding? Why would I bring homework to a bar?”
I shrugged. “Just a suggestion.”
Her skinny hip jutted out and she crossed her arms. “Is that what you did in college, Tate? Took homework with you everywhere you went so that you didn’t waste one precious second of your precious, precious time?”
I shrugged again. “Yes.”
“Figures,” she huffed. “But some of us aren’t total losers. Dylan is supposed to drop by. He’s probably late because of the stupid snow.”
“Does your dad know he’s coming here?” I asked. The last I’d heard, the owner didn’t want Dylan McStartsFights anywhere near his bar. Or his daughter.
“What’s it to you?” Ali retorted. “Are you spying for him now?”
“Sorry,” I relented, holding up my hands. “I just don’t want trouble.”
Ali Cat made a show of rolling her eyes, then spun around and took to pacing the floor again.
I went back to my newspaper, not really comprehending what I was reading. Playing over the speakers was “The Waiting” by Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers. Heh, appropriate.
Suddenly, the pages of my paper blew off the bartop. The door had opened.
“Damn!” Ali Cat cried. She rushed over to help the newcomer shut and latch the door. “That wind is insane!”
