Dropping her planner on the table in front of her, Constance fished a pen out of her purse, and started flipping pages. Her next event, an obnoxiously expensive baby shower, was in less than two months â but she had barely started, only managing to secure a color scheme and a few ideas for the menu. In the margins of the page, she wrote down a few names for caterers that she was used to working with, putting stars by the ones she thought would work best. It was all a matter of availability, but if she did this right, she could still make it look like she dedicated all her time to it, when she really had been putting it on the back burner to focus on the weddings she had lined up. Weddings were her main source of income, bringing in the most money â that she desperately needed right now, if she was going to keep the lights on at her house and afford to rebuild her life.
If she werenât so tired, and moody, she would have felt bad about her choice in establishment. She clearly wasnât the target demographic for these women â a tragically straight young woman, who was working at one of the tables â but she figured if she left a big enough tip with her drinks, and gave a few bills to the dancers, they wouldnât hunt her down later for taking up space. When someone approached the table, stealing her attention, she had been making a list of decorations she wanted to look into. âThank you,â she said automatically, taking the offered menu in her hands, letting her pen drop on the book in front of her. Because she hadnât been here before, she flipped through the drink list, humming to herself as the woman spoke. âIâll pass on the girl,â she said absently, shoving a few loose hairs back from her face, where they had fallen out of her bun. âAre the mozzarella sticks good?â she asked a moment later, closing the menu and offering it back. âIâll take âem if they are â and a rum and coke, please. Heavy on the rum, no ice.â
Despite her awful mood, she let a smile slip onto her features, refusing to take her burdens out on the young woman standing in front of her. Having worked as a waitress before, she knew the pain of the âbad dayâ customers that would come in, wanting to share their misery with everyone around them. Even if misery did love company, she was hesitant to push hers onto other people. âA glass of ice water would be great, too,â she added before the other could walk off with her order.
âHah, well I mean, theyâre nothing to write home about, but how hard is it to fuck up mozzarella sticks?â Â God only knew when the last time the friar oil had been changed, because despite Body Shotâs ritzy outward appearance and itâs fancy-ass location, the point behind the scenes was to pass the health inspection, rather than, say, getting the highest score possible, or some shit. This never stopped Adrian from eating the food when she was hungry at work, which really only happened on the rare occasion when sheâd actually chosen to take her appetite-enhancing anti depressant the night before - obviously this was something she was supposed to take regularly but never did, opting instead to fill it every month anyway and collect it in a bottle with a biotin supplement label.Â
â âCourse.â  A gesture and a nod at the busboy who was already in the process of eying down her, and possibly also the patron, from halfway across the bar procured them a glass of ice water in a couple seconds without Adrian even having to move. Â
âHey, Girl...â  The lady seemed cool enough to take what Adrian had to say without phoning the manager, though in her experience so far, everyone was âcoolâ enough so far to handle the âbrutal honestyâ of a cocktail waitress who was depending on their tip.  â... Iâm not about to turn away business, but there are a ton of other bars around here, you know... bars where all this, like, leering isnât as, you know... acceptable.â Â
It didnât really bother her, but Adrian hadnât been working at a venue of this sort - where the dress code ((hereâs what sheâs wearing)) mandated a painful full-leg salon wax long if she didnât feel like shaving every fucking day - long enough not to be hyper aware of all the eyeballs on her all the time. Â The presence of another lady around her age was only exaggerating this feeling, and making her legs feel a little colder.
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