~ Nick
The girls finally leave around nine, a stretch limo pulling up outside the bar that has them all screaming again at what I can only assume are levels dogs routinely hear. There’s a final last minute flurry of trips to the bathroom and checking their lipstick before they all call out goodbye to Tony and me and walk out the door.
“Fuck me,” I mutter, gathering up the mess of half drunk glasses they’ve left behind.
Tony laughs. “Don’t pretend you don’t enjoy it,” he says, pulling a beer for an older customer who looks equally relieved the girls have gone.
“Yeah, right, I love it,” I say sarcastically, emptying their glasses as I stack them in the dishwasher.
“You know, you could try,” he says, no longer joking. “You are actually allowed to have fun in this job.”
I busy myself unpacking the clean glasses, refusing to meet Tony’s stare because I know exactly what he’s thinking and exactly what else he wants to say. It’s not that I don’t appreciate his efforts; it’s just that while he seems to feel this is the best course of action for him, it’s not something that’s ever going to happen for me.
Not anymore anyway.
“Nick?” he says, waiting for me to answer.
I shoot him a quick glance, shrugging my shoulders as I say, “I do have fun.”
“Right,” he scoffs, moving on to serve a group of guys who’ve just walked in.
I ignore his comment as I turn back to wipe down the bar. There’s a napkin with a name and number scrawled on it, which I scrunch up and throw in the bin. The older guy drinking his beer chuckles a little as I do and I look up and ask, “You want it?”
He laughs even harder now, swallowing half his beer in one long gulp. “Too young for me,” he says. “But what’s your story with it all?”
I serve some customers as this guy continues to watch me, waiting for an answer. I’m not sure what he’s expecting me to say or why he thinks he can ask me about it, but in the end, I just shrug and say, “Not my style.”
“Doesn’t have to be your style,” the guy says, finishing off his beer. “But your friend’s right, you are allowed to have fun.”
I watch as he stands and grabs his coat from the back of the bar stool. He grins at me, before turning and walking out of the bar. “Random,” I mutter, watching as he holds the door open for a woman who looks unsure about whether she even wants to come inside. I watch her, wondering what makes her so uncertain, but then she shakes her head at my last customer, stepping backwards as she turns and glances down the street as though she’s looking for something.
I keep watching her as she stands outside on the cold street, alternatively glancing at the door and the curb where taxis are waiting. She’s hesitant, as though she can’t decide if she should stay or go.
Eventually though, she does neither, instead pulling a phone from her bag, thumbing through some keys and lifting it to her ear. She turns away from me and leans back against the front window of the bar.
She’s wearing a long black coat, her long blonde hair still half wet as it blows in the cold night air. I can’t see her face as she talks, but after a few minutes her head falls, the hand not holding the phone running through her hair in frustration or despair maybe.
Even from behind, she looks lonely and for some reason, a part of me wants to walk outside and see that she’s okay. Maybe tell her to come inside where it’s warm, so I can pour her a drink and she doesn’t have to feel so alone. I shove the towel in my back pocket, unsure about what’s driving me to want to go out to her.
“Excuse me?”
I turn, see a group of four standing at the bar, one of them looking expectantly at me. I shake my head, knowing I’ve got no business going outside to ask if this woman is alright. I’ve got a bar to run, customers to serve. Shaking my head, I plaster on a smile. “Sorry, what can I get for you?”
By the time I’ve got them their drinks, the mystery woman is no longer outside my bar, the window empty with nothing but the faintest wet marks where she leant her wet hair against the glass. I’m surprised by a sudden feeling of loss, as though I’ve somehow missed out on something by her not walking in here.
It’s weird and I turn away from the window, busy myself making sure all of my customers are served, that everyone’s drinks are full.
When I turn down to the end of the bar though, to the stool the guy offering me relationship advice sat in, I’m shocked to see her sitting there. She’s still wearing her coat; the collar turned up to her chin even though the heating in here ensures the bar is nice and warm. Now she’s up close, I can see I was right about the frustration and despair. It’s written all over her face, along with a healthy dose of exhaustion too. She looks nervously around the room as though she’s going to bolt any second and for some unknown reason, I find myself moving towards her.
Wanting her to stay.