She can be anyone. And I turned her into a tale.
These are 13 short stories about 13 different girls. Well, maybe not só different at all... But that's for you to say.
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Again, I'm late.
I enter in the bar trying no to be noticed, and go straight to the bathroom to put on my uniform. After some minutes working on my make up, with no sucess on hiding the dark circles under my eyes, I head to the other side of the counter, and start my shift.
That guy is there, on the same table, drinking his usual scotch and wearing his usual black leather jacket. It's just a matter of time for him to put on some old hard rock on the jukebox. I sigh, and look away.
One of my coworkers stares at me, a severe look on her face. She says she can't keep covering for me. They already noticed I'm getting late every day.
I blink some times, and look up to my workmate, before staring back at the dirty counter in front of me.
I'm really really sorry, I say with a guilty smile, I'll try not to repeat that.
I can't loose the job, but people don't understand how hard it is for me to keep it.
Working in the morning, college by the afternoon, working at night, cleaning the house, studying after all that ...
My life has been this way since my fiancé left.
Stupid me, for believing that I could just run away with a teenage boyfriend to a big town and leave everything behind. Now I'm on my own, with no fiancé, family, pet or anything but that tiny dark apartment rent and a bunch of bills amounting on my mail box.
It's ok, I whisper to myself. I will survive. I don't have any expectations on life by now, I only need to handle it.
The guy stands up, and I keep watching as he chooses one of my favorite Led Zepellin's song. I sing along keeping my voice down, drumming my fingers on the counter on the rhythm of the song, pretending to clean something with an old fabric, following his every move with the corner of the eye... That misterious guy is the only thing that distracts me from my pseudo-life, lately. I don't know his name. But he comes to the club every single night, which makes 8 pm my favorite hour. That I noticed since my very first day at work. He seems to be older, about 40, and he don't talk much. Actually, he doesn't talk at all. He only orders the same old usual scotch everyday with a gesture. And everytime I ask if he needs something else, he just smiles. The song ends, and so his scotch, and he leaves. I sigh, watching him go away again.
