Sparia Three-Shot (1940s)

What Arduous Times

December 22nd, 1942

It was nigh on Christmas, and in the geriatric hours of the night, Spencer Hastings walked the main street, alone save for the moon and the rhythmic click of her heels. It was one of those nights where the air seemed heavier than normal, and the shadows seemed to whisper. In the back alleys, meretricious people indulged in clandestine things, and even the cars were intimidating as they chugged over the potholes in the road.
   Spencer glowered at her surroundings. She supposed that the church leering over her was meant to give her a sense of security, but rather, the stark white walls were just blinding, even in the darkness, and the flowers lining its facade gave off a cloying smell. Across the road, there was a little bar open, bawdy music emanating from it, and with a self-assured gait, Spencer started across the street towards it.

Upon pushing open the door, Spencer was greeted with a rush of warm air, a nice change from the rain and the cold outside. Gaiety and laughter was redolent in the air - and the stench of alcohol, too. Drunks fell around the bar, their faces soaking in tumblers of whiskey; on the tables in the corner, scantily-clothed couples lay on top of each other, faces red from inebriation, mouths voraciously chewing at the other's face. Spencer uttered a contemptuous sniff. She would have turned to the door and headed right back out again, but this was the only place open, and home wasn't exactly welcoming at present.
   Tentatively, Spencer wove through the crowds, and sought out a table at the farthest end of the bar. There was a tall man in a fedora who shot her a languid smile near her location, but she ignored him, and focused her eyes in lieu on the movie theatre just visible through the window. It was advertising Casablanca, which had recently been released, and Spencer longed for it to be open, so she could pass the time there, rather than in this cesspit.
"What will it be, ma'am?" A ruddy-faced waiter with a southern drawl asked suddenly. Not bothering to contend with any other options, Spencer answered immediately.
"Oh, uh, a black coffee please." It was late, but she needed to stay up. The bartender nodded, and whisked away, carrying with him the heavy stench of cigar smoke.

Once she had drained the last of her coffee, Spencer rested her head in her hands and gazed catatonically around herself. The clock on the wall said it was three in the morning, and though the dense throngs in the bar and the lusty laughter would suggest otherwise, the streets outside were devoid of sound. The man in the fedora who had shot her that coquettish smile was still there, and his leering, penetrating gaze sent shivers up Spencer's spine. His eyes glinted like diamonds in the mellow light, but his smile was freighted with a curious mix of lust and hate. He saw her staring, and his lips turned up again, revealing a gold tooth.
  The creak of the door opening gave Spencer a pleasant reprieve from him, and she whipped her head back around. Through the empty doorframe, she watched as a figure stepped into the room. Then, promptly, gasped.
The girl, it seemed, had come in from the rain, and had the most statuesque beauty that Spencer had ever beheld. She was unaccompanied, and her skin was rosy, her eyes glistening and green, and her lips plump. She was short, but elegant. There was a black umbrella in her hand, which she deposited swiftly by the door, and her dark brown hair grazed her chin as she moved her head to scan the room in a way that reminded Spencer both of a reconnaissance and, curiously, herself. A strange tickling sensation began to scratch away at her stomach - less like butterflies, and more like a swarm of moths.
   Suddenly, the girl's eyes locked on her own, and her mouth stretched into a broad grin. Half in despair, and half in agonising excitement, Spencer watched as the girl moved swiftly across the floor towards her. She stopped at the chair opposite Spencer, and smiled down at her.
"Are you here by yourself?" She asked in a clear, mellifluous voice.
"Uh-um, yeah," Spencer muttered. The girl nodded, and slid into the opposing chair.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" Her eyes darted furtively around the room. "We're the only two women alone at night in a bar; it's a dicey predicament"
"Sure."
There was a freighted silence for a few seconds. Spencer cleared her throat uneasily, and glanced down at her lap. "So," she asked, "what brings you out here tonight?"
The girl waved her hand dismissively. "Missed the last train home and I needed somewhere to wait until the rain stopped." She paused. "And what were you doing tonight?"
A sudden wave of tenacity crashed over Spencer. She glanced up through her eyelashes and smiled coyly.
"Burying a body," she breathed. The girl wavered for a moment, her face falling as she tried to construe whether or not Spencer was joking or not. Then she laughed, and shook her head.
"Well, what's your name?" She asked.
"Hastings. Spencer Hastings." Spencer leaned forward slightly. "And you?"
"Aria Montgomery."
Spencer's insides fluttered.
Aria.