Country songs playing on the radio, Dad Joe's old pickup truck, the sunset over the wheat fields behind the farm, drinking around a campfire.
Daniel is back in Silky Oak to celebrate his sister's wedding. There, he left a life he misses more than...
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It was one of those stifling summers that Silky Oak hadn't seen in years. The lightweight tank top I wore felt like a second skin, and the cool air from the fan behind me sent shivers down my spine every time it graciously decided to bless me with a gust of relief. I was alone behind the counter—as I always was—since Wendy Rue would never dream of paying someone else to give me a hand, even on the busiest nights. On the other side of the long, dark wooden bar, the usual Friday night crowd gathered at the Blue Wren, known to most as "Wendy's," after its popular owner. The regularity with which the habits of all the inhabitants of that small country town on the outskirts of Perth, Australia, repeated themselves would have been depressingly dull to anyone—except for those who were born and raised in that same small town.
For me, there was poetry in the monotony of those endlessly similar days, and in that routine, I found my peace.
I could list with perfect accuracy every person who would show up for a beer at Wendy's each day. Perhaps, I knew it better than they did. I knew when they'd arrive, what they'd order, even how much tip they'd leave. And I liked it that way. What I liked less, though, was having to wipe down the bar every five minutes to clean the rings left by the overflowing mugs. Loving the Blue Wren didn't mean loving everything about it. Complaining was just part of the job as anything else.
<<You're going to drive me crazy,>> I muttered as I stretched to wipe away the condensation of the glass mixed with beer on the wooden surface in front of Busty Joe and Noisy Jeff, the targets of my complaint, after retrieving their now-empty mugs. They'd been perched on those stools since 7 PM sharp, as they were every evening, after finishing up their work on their respective farms.
<<You drove us crazy ages ago,>> Busty Joe teased, signaling with his hands to refill their favorite lager. The hat the man wore every evening, at least thirty years old, revealed only half of his wrinkled yet chubby face. The face of someone who had worked in the fields his entire life but had never denied himself a good meal of homegrown delights. His expansive chest, the source of his nickname—even older than his hat—pushed against the counter, nearly knocking over the empty tray that Tony, the waiter, had left there for me to load with the order from table 5.
I pulled a playful face in response to Busty Joe, who had been flirting with me since my first night behind that bar, five years ago. It was innocent and harmless, which is why I always let it slide. I could have been his daughter, given the age difference between us.
<<It's not our fault we're making a mess,>> Noisy Jeff, the younger of the two, chimed in, shrugging. His high-pitched, raspy voice was one I would recognize anywhere. <<It's that penny-pincher's of Wendy for not buying more coasters.>>
I found myself smiling in agreement as I filled their mugs before turning to Tony's order. He wasn't wrong.<<In the battle between getting a raise and restocking the coasters, just so you know, I'm rooting for the first, not the second,>> I replied, serving them.<<And we're with you, darling,>> Noisy Jeff declared before disappearing behind his mug.<<Thanks for keeping us hydrated in this heat,>> Busty Joe added.
