Blood and Silver (On Going)

Chapter 1 ~ Aisha

The low buzz of conversation mixed with the clinking of glasses and the sporadic burst of laughter made the bar alive with a thrum of noise and motion. The strong taste of alcohol assaulted my nose as I pushed through the throng toward the rear to clock in for my shift, a warning of the long night to come. Already on autopilot, my fingers moved fast, binding the torn strings of my apron around my waist as I slid behind the counter.

"Hey, sweetheart!" The slurred voice cut through the noise and caught my sight of a man already three beers in, staggered toward the bar with a wild expression in his eyes. He swung dangerously near to a couple of other customers, almost knocking over their drinks as he went. "Grab me another drink. Whiskey."

I took a glass, the weight of which I knew in my hand, and laid it before him. Before I reached for the Tennessee Whiskey, the amber liquid caught the low lighting of the bar as my eyes swept over the shelves loaded with bottles. I looked at him, eyebrow raised, pouring. "You sure you haven't had enough?"

The glass filled halfway, but he seemed unconcerned. "Not nearly enough," he said, grabbing it quickly and downing it in one fast move. With a harsh thud, the glass landed on the counter; his rough fingers swept the stray whiskey drops from his lips. Now glassy and focused, his eyes fastened upon mine. "Come on, load it to the rim."

Desperate, his stench mixed with the bar's smoke and sweat like a rancid scent. Standing behind that counter, I paused momentarily and felt the weight of the evening rest on my shoulders as another soul sank into a sea of alcohol.

I sighed softly, the kind that only shows up after hours of seeing others lose themselves in the drunken haze. I top off the glass without another word; the golden liquid swells under the low bar lighting. Though I know my caution will go unheard, I mumble, "Don't drink it all at once." As I re-store the bottle on the shelf, his hungry hands are immediately groping for it.

I turn away, my focus now on the swelling assembly at the counter, each face blending into another. The buzz of discussion grows, and I look around the room, finding empty glasses strewn over tables like traces of past discussions. Taking a tray, I leave from behind the counter and gently weave past the patrons in line. The air smells like cheap cologne, beer, and sweat, and the laughter around me sounds far away like background noise in an old movie.

I go fast, scooping empty glasses as I go, dodging outstretched arms and the odd stumble of someone a drink too deep causes. The tray is filled with the constant beat of glass against glass, which grounds me in the tumult.

"Hey!" Through the noise comes a sharp voice. I turn to find an elderly man waving his empty glass like a flag of surrender. His eyes, albeit sleepy, have a flash of irritation. His cheeks are flushed. "Refill of gin!"

"Coming right up!" I nod quickly when I get back. I laid the tray of empty glasses down and the sound harsh against the gentle murmur of the bar. I head back toward him after grabbing a bottle of gin from the wall, the glass smooth and chilly under my fingers.

The weight of the night is settling in as I traverse the sea of faces. The hours seem to me as unbounded, and I wonder how many more drinks I will pour before the evening is over, how many more times like this will blend together, lost to the haze of bar lights and whiskey-stained recollections.

The elder man and his friend are engaged in conversation as I approach the table, their loud laughter drawing the attention of a few surrounding customers. Their voices occupy the room with a rough, almost humorous intensity that conflicts with the undercurrent of anxiety I see developing. I gently top the man's empty glass and move the gin bottle against my hip with trained ease. "Anything for your friend?" I keep a casual tone when I ask, but already I sense conflict.