Glancing up at the plastic, ketchup-splattered clock hanging above the bar, I decide if she’s a second late, she gets nothing. As the clock ticks past 2:59, I start to count down the seconds, willing it to run out. I watch it tick down to fifteen and go to get up when I catch sight of her. Strawberry blonde hair whips around her face disrupting the view as she takes confident strides toward the bar. Her long, toned legs are covered in tight-fitting black denim and matching plain Uggs. The rest of her is swallowed in layers of colorful shirts, a sweater, and a thick scarf. It’s as if she put everything in her suitcase on. Opening the door, she steps in and searches the bar. Her eyes find me easily as she zeroes in and walks my way. Her lips lift slightly in greeting as her eyes fix on me, her gaze not meeting mine fully until she comes to a stop at the foot of the table.
It’s then she lifts them fully to peer down at me as she starts to unwrap her scarf, her plump, glossy lips upturning. The initial hit of indigo eyes feels like the strike of a crowbar being leveraged against my chest. Tightening my grip on my pint, I kick back in the booth, resolved that she’s a snake. A beautiful snake, but a snake just the same.
“You’ve already decided you don’t like me,” she says, a barely perceptible Texas lilt curling the end of each word. “I can’t really say that I blame you right now.” She slides into the opposite side of the booth before signaling to the bartender, pointing to my beer before lifting two fingers. I remain silent. It’s her shitshow.
She casts her eyes down briefly before lifting them back to mine to thoroughly inspect me. “Look, Easton,” she sighs, “I’m sorry. That phone call was,” she shakes her head, “to put it bluntly, it was an asshole way to approach this and get an interview, though I’m sure you’re used to it.”
I give her a dead stare in return.
“I reconsidered coming,” she lifts her head to the bartender, who summons her with the flick of his wrist to pick up her own fucking beers.
Yeah, princess, this isn’t that kind of place.
If I hadn’t researched enough to know that she is an heir to a media empire, I would assume she was a pageant princess of some sort. She’s beautiful, polite enough, obviously educated, and proper when speaking as if she’s ready for the next spelling question. Nothing about her sticks out as extraordinary, except the eyes. They have a depth I wasn’t expecting, probably intelligence. Either way, I flick that aside as she fetches her beer and rejoins me, pushing a fresh dark draft my way. I push it back toward her to decline while tilting my own up. She sits back, taking a large sip of brew while glancing around, no doubt to sum up the place with a few sentences for her article.
“Describe it,” I order.
“Sorry?”
“Describe the bar,” I lean forward, bracing my forearms on the table. “How would you write it?”
“Sticky,” she says with a light laugh, peeling the menu off the side of her palm.
“Fuck this,” I say, unable to believe I entertained her in the first place as I move to stand. She grips my arm to stop me, and I sneer at her, my shoulders locking up as my anger spikes. I shouldn’t have agreed to this. Showing up gave her too much leverage.
“Jesus, okay.” She licks her gloss-slicked lower lip. “Dark and dank, clearly in need of a deep clean…but perfectly necessary. If there were a list of the lost art of bars, this would rank high.”
“Why?”
“The jukebox, for one,” she adds quickly, “the selection itself is a nostalgic trip down memory lane. I’ve been here two minutes, and I can feel it already.” She sweeps the room with her gaze before bringing it back to me. “This is what bars used to be. Shots and beer, nothing to grind or garnish with an herb. The definition of a classic dive bar…” She keeps her gaze pinned on me as the crowbar digs further into my chest. “Black walls, matching but worn comfortable leather booths, checkered tile floors.” She glances to our left and grins. “Bumper sticker slogans plastered at eye level.” She clears her throat, projecting her voice in presentation. “Bathed in a symphony of neon light the second you step inside, you can picture the bloody, loose molars from desperation-laced bar fights. The atmosphere alone screams, ‘welcome all those who are lost. We offer nothing but spirits to wash your confusion down with.’”
Momentarily settling back in, I sip my beer as her eyes flare in irritation.
“So, did I pass?” She shakes her head, her posture weary but not from our battle. I haven’t even given her a tenth of what I had prepared.