Toxic

She stares at her drink. Beads of condensation have gathered along the outside of the glass and are slowly sliding down onto the wooden table top, forming a wet ring. It's hot and stuffy inside the bar and the drink has been sitting there just that little bit too long. It has taken her more than half an hour to even order it and now, another half hour later, she still hasn't touched it.

Almost as if touching it would make the fact that she's drinking alone (again) more real.

She sighs and slowly runs a finger along the edge of the glass.

"You know, the idea is to drink it. Not stare at it."

She looks up to find the bartender grinning at her. Or at least she thinks he's grinning at her. It's hard to tell because his face is covered in scars and there's blood running from the corner of his mouth. She eyes him for a moment, then looks back down at the liquid inside the glass, almost jet-black under the glow of the blacklights that have been put up for the occasion. Small pieces of ice float on the surface, remnants of the blood-red ice cubes that are served with every beverage tonight. Attention to detail, for sure, but it doesn't make the drinks particularly appealing.

"You alone here?" he asks as he wipes the counter, clearly not sensing her reluctance to talk.

"Is that a problem?" she bites.

"No. Not at all," he says and he looks slightly taken aback by her tone. He has to raise his voice because the music has suddenly changed from hauntingly quiet to scarily loud. "It's just that you don't see a lot of people coming to parties like these by themselves. Hey, don't worry, I think it's cool!"

Cool.

Yeah right.

"I'm not supposed to be here alone," she says defiantly, though why she feels the need to explain herself, she doesn't know.

"Oh. Friends running a little late then?"

She glances at her phone that is sitting on the counter next to her drink, the message she received a few minutes ago still blinking on the screen.

"Stuck at the office, will try to be there as soon as I can. Sorry. X"

Her heart sinks again.

"Something like that," she says quietly.

She knows what's going to happen. She's been there before. A message like that is usually followed shortly by "will be just a little longer" and "so sorry, won't be able to make it after all".

And then, much later, by the gentle padding of feet on the carpet in their bedroom and a warm body sliding under the covers next to her; maybe a soft kiss against her hair or a whispered apology to the night air.

It's all done very quietly, though, so she doesn't wake up. So they don't have to talk about it.

(In the dark of night, he never notices she's only pretending to be asleep after having been up all night waiting for him.)

(He never notices the tear tracks on her face or the dampness of her pillow either.)

The bartender's mouth is moving and she realises he is still talking to her.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I said I liked your outfit, Sally."

She gives him a small smile, taking some comfort in the fact that he at least recognizes who she's dressed up as. It had taken her a lot of time to try and make an exact copy of raggedy Sally's multi-coloured patchwork dress and the make-up alone had taken more than two hours to put on.