Cursed Proficiency

2 • Who Are You?

The pulsating beat of the music reverberated through the dimly lit room, neon lights casting vibrant hues across the crowded dance floor where bodies moved in sync, lost in rhythm. The people on the dance floor hopped up and down to the beat of the music, celebrating the end of yet another working week, causing the walls and the floor of the building to bounce and vibrate. Even though some of the townsfolk chose to linger at the bar and nearby tables, the atmosphere remained quite lively.

Sitting alone at one of the white-paned benches was a well-postured woman. She sipped lightly at some straight vodka as the dazzling lights from the ceiling flickered against her figure from time to time. She scrunched up her face as the music from the bar looming behind her gradually became louder. What was she expecting? She came here to get away from it all. For it all to just drown out.

The glass that sat on the white-paned bench vibrated just slightly as the people on the dance floor jumped up and down, celebrating the end of another working week.

Meanwhile, she was the opposite. Instead of celebrating, she sat - isolated - as she attempted to escape her own problems. Coming to a club, or a bar, was probably not the best idea, was it? 

The woman briefly glanced over her shoulders, a chill crawling up her spine for a moment, as if something were unfamiliar to her. She knew every person in such a small town like Flam. She saw everyone in the bar was enjoying themselves, knowing every single individual there - their story.

So, who was that?

From across the bar, the woman spotted a lone and tall man with his head dug deeply into his arms as if to hide his face from the world. He seemed quite young - at least in his 20's, she pondered. She noticed how he leaned onto the bench with somewhat of a ragged and messy attire - as if he had a chaotic day - and his mess-of-a-hair that sat atop of his head. Maybe it wasn't a man, but a mop, she thought.

"Everything alright, Carrie?" A masculine voice came into earshot.

Carrie swung back around and faced away from the unfamiliar man, quickly fixing her appearance by tucking her hair behind her ears.

While fixated on the strange, strange man, a cute bar-tender had approached, wiping a glass with a somewhat clean rag. Somewhat.

"I'm fine, thanks," Carrie cleared her throat. Good recovery, right? "Could I just have some more ice, please?" 

Nervously, Carrie rubbed the side of her cold glass as she attempted to distract herself from overthinking; overthinking who this new person could be.

"You do realize there's plenty of ice outside, if that's all you want." The bar-tender simply shook his head upon hearing Carrie's request, pulling out a tray of ice before tipping it's remains into her glass. 

"Uh huh." Carrie responded. She clasped her glass with both hands, shyly moving from the bench and approaching a nearby table, scooting onto the tall stool. Her back remained turned against the new stranger as she watched the club-goers enjoy themselves.

Chewing on the inside of her cheek, Carrie pictured herself among the crowd, trying to have fun. She imagined all of her problems washing away like water in a sink - releasing the plug and watching all the contents fall down the drain. However, the longer her back was turned, the more she felt her eyes slowly draw back to the stranger across the room.

As Carrie briefly glanced over her shoulder, she noticed that there were two glasses, or three, sitting on the bench near the stranger. It was clear that she was not the only one with problems. That made her think just what this stranger was going through, the journalist within her coming alive.

No, no, she wasn't going to just get up, walk to a stranger and start bombarding him with questions like she was the press. That would be so awkward. Rude, even.

Carrie struggled to sit comfortably on the metal stool beneath her, silently tapping her foot to the beat of the ongoing music. As she felt the rhythm overwhelm her, she slowly closed her eyes as she imagined herself being in a more lively place. Perhaps somewhere with her friends as the music played. Somewhere that wasn't so wretchedly remote. The feeling - the scenario - was pleasant.

Suddenly, a glass shattering sounded from the group of people that huddled the dance floor, and it pulled Carrie out of the perfect scenario that she was picturing in her mind. That was when she realized that she was out of her depth by being here. Why did she even come here? This wasn't her style. This wasn't really helping her; it was merely giving her a headache.

Carrie drifted a slim hand through her hair as she tidied it up, the strands falling behind her elegantly. With her posture slowly declining, it was clear that she was on edge and that something was bothering her. She gently leaned her chin in the palm of her right hand as she began to think. Maybe she should leave.

Oh, right, how could she forget? Carrie leaned into her slacks' pockets to grab a folded piece of paper, detailing a rough version of her resume. It was virtually blank, however. She pondered to herself silently and debated if whether or not she should hand it into the bar or not.

Would they even accept her? There was hardly anything on the resume anyway, so it was probably pointless.

Carrie scoffed quietly, beginning to fold the piece of paper in her hands as she stood up from her stool and prepared to leave. Wiping down the ring of water stained on the table with her black sweater, the cotton absorbed it as quickly as it was left there.

As Carrie turned on her heels to leave, with the folded resume in hand, she was prevented from leaving as the figure of the strange man halted in front of her.

"I-" Carrie went to finally speak to the odd man, but she bit on her tongue. To be fair, she was unsure on what to even say. Hello? Excuse me? Or should she just ignore him completely and leave?

For the amount of time that she thought silently to herself, the tall man merely stood there without a word. Well, if this wasn't awkward before, it was now.

Carrie looked up to the man's gaze, noticing her fumbling face in the reflection of his circular spectacles. Quickly, she brushed some hair behind her ear, fixing her appearance subtly.

"Uhm, sorry," the young man finally croaked in a seemingly shy manner. He had a thick accent, but it wasn't Norwegian. 

"Oh, yeah, sorry," Carrie responded as she awkwardly looked to the ground, finally moving around the young man's slim figure and towards the bar to place down some cash for her drinks. She then glanced down to the resume and a bundle of notes that readily waited in her shaky grasp.

Carrie still remained undecided. Should she turn the resume in, or should she just run? That awkward encounter with the strange man was bad enough.

Maybe she should just run.