i never was ready, so i watch you go

i

It was just another day. Another day of serving drunken fifty year olds instead of doing something good for her degree, like being a lab assistant, because she needed money and who knew working at a bar could pay this much?

Well, maybe there was a reason behind all of the money. The bartender scans the room full of rich, divorced, drunk men, some making out with women she guesses aren't older than thirty and others that are busy screaming at someone else for some shit reason she can't comprehend.

She really should've chosen a university job. But she can't say this isn't entertaining, either.

So, when a depressed-looking brunette walks into the bar, her hair all frizzled, heavy bags under her eyes, with nothing but a few fifty-dollar bills in hand, it's nothing but a perfectly normal person. What isn't normal is how, when the bartender looks up from serving two people seemingly on a first date and she meets eyes with the woman, she feels a deep sense of concern rippling inside her.

Really, under any other circumstance, she wouldn't have cared. There's hundreds of people that come by every week and, yeah, some look suicidal, some look as if they're already drunk and high and will die if they have another drink, but when has it been the bartender's job to care?

She shouldn't care, she really shouldn't.

But she does.

"One margarita, please." The bartender doesn't realize the woman has now made her way to the counter and she quickly nods, turning back around to find it. She notices how raw the brunette's voice is. It's not drunken, but not sober, either. It's lifeless, with no sense of emotion or purpose.

She's surprised that the brunette hasn't sunk six feet under when she returns with the cocktail. The woman doesn't even look up as she serves the drink but catches it in her palm like a choreographed scene, and it really shouldn't concern her, but after watching the raven down the cocktail in a matter of seconds and then serving her a second, she really can't help it.

She finally makes a move after serving her five strong drinks in a row, frowning, placing her hands on the counter, trying to make eye contact with the woman.

"Listen, I don't know if you're high or what, but I really can't serve you any more alcohol."

The brunette doesn't respond in words; instead, she slides another fifty dollar bill onto the table. The bartender grits her teeth, frowning. "I don't want your money. I'd rather take none at all than watch as you undergo alcohol poisoning in my bar and chase away all my customers." That was half true. Considering most of her customers were almost always tipsy, she doubted they cared, but today was definitely not a good day for cleaning up puke.

"God," the woman groans. "That usually shuts them up, goddammit."

"I'm still talking to you," the bartender barks, which finally makes the woman's head snap up. It feels so sudden, so strange, so eye-opening to see it. She's had her head lowered the entire time she's been here, yet now, as she raises it, the bartender makes direct eye contact with the brunette to find icy, shocking blue eyes.

What's even worse is how deep they are.

Everything about the woman is dead: her black clothing to her voice to the way she puts her hair, as if it's a nuisance and she couldn't care less about it. Yet, as soon as she meets her gaze, it's as if everything she's learned about the woman is wrong. Those blue eyes are swimming in layers of pain, hurt, melancholy, and grief that she can't even decipher, and it turns her world upside down just staring at it.

It ends as soon as it's started, and just seconds after, the woman's back to staring at the table, completely motionless.

"I am sorry," the brunette replies snidely, the first sign of emotion in her voice yet. "I'll leave if my presence isn't welcome here."