Drinks on Me

1

 "Another round for you, Mr. Winchester?" asked the girl as she slid a drink to a customer sitting down the counter. The man waved his hand dismissively, staring down at the chipped countertop. A shadow fell over him, hiding his definitive features and leaving just a silhouette. For every night the girl had worked in the bar, the man had been there. She had figured he would stop showing up after a few weeks, but tonight was her one year anniversary of tending, and he hadn't missed an evening. She had gone several months without knowing his name until a group of soldiers had showed up. The merry attitude with which the man was greeted dwindled after his obvious lack of interest in whatever drinking game it was the men had decided on. The cold reaction had not dulled their spirits, however, and a rowdy game of poker had ensued shortly after the second round of alcohol. As the group was leaving, the girl had finally caught a name, some form of identification, rather than "the man," as the staff had taken to calling him. Dean Winchester, former servant and current veteran, sent home due to an injury in his left leg, rendering him unable to move properly.

As she poured, the girl checked the notepad in front of her. A current tab of $130.50 was totaled to the man sitting in the shadows. She elected not to write down the draft, and save the man the trouble of an uneven number. Despite her doubts of actual payment, the girl didn't mind having the man around. Although his silence took the opportunity of a conversation away, the girl had not given up trying. One night, after a particularly large group had walked in, she had heard Dean chuckle as she turned down an extremely drunk, classless man attempting to take her home. Saying her eyes matched his bedsheets had ended him outside. That was the closest she had ever come to hearing him speak, but she was determined to have a conversation with him before the term was over. In six months, she would have enough saved to take her to across the world, and to somewhere better. For now, she was stuck in a small town, in a dirty pub, with a silent man.

She moved quietly towards the man, as though he were an animal who could be frightened by the slightest of sounds. Just as she set the glass down on the table and opened her mouth to speak, the bell on the door jingled.

"Aimey!" called a shrill, loud voice. The girl cringed at the sound, but turned to face the woman with a smile.

"Mother," she sighed, sending an apologetic glance to Dean. However, he seemed to be preoccupied with the cracks in the counter, and paid no attention to her attempt at contact. Aimey walked defeatedly towards her mother, who took slow, shaky steps towards her. Cringing, the girl stiffened as her mother leaned in to hug her, moving away to avoid the smell of bourbon and vomit that left the lady's mouth as she laughed in Aimey's ear.

"Welcome to The Dancing Mouse, what can I get for you this evening?" asked Aimey, pulling away from the awkward embrace, and glancing at the time on the wall. Her shift would be over soon, and she didn't want to have the extra responsibility of escorting her drunk mother home.

"Oh honey, don't be so formal. You work in a pub for God's sake, lighten up a bit." Apparently this was the world's funniest joke, because the woman doubled over laughing, collapsing against the counter. A man from one table looked up, seemingly disgusted by the woman's behaviour. Or perhaps the distaste was pointed at Aimey herself, for not handling these types of people properly. Either way, that was not her concern. She took her wobbling mother out the door, flagging down a cab. As they waited, Aimey rubbed the goosebumps from her arms. This fall was promising to turn into a very cold winter, with a layer of frost covering the streetlamps. This dimmed the glow of the lights, causing an eerie glow to be cast over the sidewalks. Eventually a pair of headlights slowed to a stop in front of them, the driver pausing to examine the sad duo, before opening the door for the woman.

"Take her to this address," Aimey stated to the driver, handing him money and a note. She could only hope her mother made it home safe, but it would be no surprise if she found her sprawled out on the steps in front of the house the next morning, her mind too blurred and sore to work the lock. Aimey re entered the bar, just as the last of the people were standing to leave. The bar closed in approximately ten minutes, and no one wanted to be rushed to find a cab, not in this weather. The only customer who stayed was the one generally seated till the end.

"Mr. Winchester? We close in ten minutes, just a reminder," Aimey said. The man nodded, his eyes fixated on the empty glass in front of him.

"Would you like me to call you a cab?" she asked, heading over to the wall. She dialed the number, requesting a car to the address as soon as possible. After placing the receiver back in its cradle, Aimey walked back over to the man. As she approached him, she studied his features. They seemed to change as the night went on. His eyes would grow darker underneath, large shadows accompanying them. His shoulders slumped, and his head grew weary, as though the weight were too much for him to bear. Aimey stepped around to slip his arm over her shoulders, helping him as he stumbled out the door and into the quiet night. Shortly after, the cab arrived, and she sent him in with an address, another helpful tip from one of the soldiers. As she watched the cab drive off, the tail lights disappearing, she wondered about the man, if he would arrive safely or not.