By Any Other Name

One

A low-level din met her ears as she walked into the bar. Scanning the room, she decided, not unlike Little Red Riding Hood, there were neither too many or too few people. Therefore, blending in and disappearing would be possible, without much threat of being bothered. The place wasn't one of those trendy bars where people come to see and be seen. Instead, she found it to be a small-ish, well-appointed establishment, located among high rises that inhabited the downtown business center. The clientele, in a word, was bland. It consisted of locals having a drink after work, or maybe they were traveling business men looking to blow off a little steam with a good scotch and maybe a willing bed partner? Probably both. The important thing was, it had alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.

On her second pass of perusing the room, she spied someone leaving the polished, dark wood and mirrored bar. "Is this seat saved?" She asked the man who sat next to the vacated spot when she arrived at the stool. He shook his head, only meeting her gaze briefly before tossing her half a smile and returning to swirling his drink.

"Thank you." She hung her sweater and purse over the back of the barstool. Once comfortably situated, the bartender, a young, fairly handsome guy, came over dropping a white square, paper napkin in front of her.

"What can I get you?"

"Belvedere dirty martini, please. Extra dirty."

The bartender grinned at her, "Filthy dirty!"

"Porn star dirty! Just when you think it's dirty enough, make it dirtier."

The man next to her chuckled, and the bartender laughed openly.

"How many olives?"

"As many as you can fit."

"Calling that dinner, are we?"

"What? It's fruit," she defended, in mock outrage.

"Coming right up."

Pulling out a credit card and journal from her purse, she set both down in front of her and waited. When the drink was placed on the coaster, she handed him her card. "Please start a tab."

He tapped the card on the bar top twice and walked away. The glass was frosty and cold. Little bits of ice floated on the surface of her olive green, tinted drink. Taking the first sip, she let it sit on her tongue for a moment before swallowing. Perfect. She smiled. The bartender caught her eye and raised his eyebrows in question. She gave him a thumbs up, and he nodded and turned to another patron.

Her journal was plain, black leather, no adornments or anything. The paper inside, a good quality and held up to her black, expensive fountain pen she kept in the holder attached to the book. Running her fingers over the front, she let her thoughts swirl in her head until they begged to be let out. When she was ready, she opened the leather cover, pulled out the pen and began to write. She wrote like her life depended on it. Maybe it did. Certainly part of her happiness was caught up in it. She wrote about her day, about things that needed to be done, about projects and people and when all that was out of her head, she wrote her thoughts. All of them. Whatever came to mind, she let out on to the page. There were questions and a few answers. If they were correct, she didn't know, and didn't care. It just needed to get out of her head. Fears and concerns about every aspect of her life were scrawled for pages, and once all that was out, she let the other voices speak, the ones you're not supposed to listen to. The ones that tell you everything wrong with yourself and your life. The ones that are ruled by depression and anxiety and are lies, lies, lies. No matter how true they feel, logically you know they're lies. It's a strange sensation, letting those voices out.