the bar was quiet in the kind of way that the coast felt just before a storm ; apprehensive, on the cusp of something. bitterly windy outside and just shy of eight thirty on a tuesday, she’d come from one of the worst sales pitches of her life. natalya was good at upselling. she’d worked in bars, she’d worked in retail, she’d spent years as an accessory to her late husband’s arts shows as he wrung out clueless buyers for all they were worth as they clasped for an ounce of culture to hold in their grabby paws. she knew how to double her money simply through charm and a good hand of cards, but she wasn’t a fucking wizard. not only was the property semi-detached, rather than the advertised detached, but it looked nothing like the photographs in the brochure, and the yuppie couple had left with a sour taste in their mouths after seeing the state of disarray that had come to infest the place after just a few short weeks of being empty. how the fuck was she supposed to sell a place on orion avenue as a charming fixer-upper when a family of rodents had overtaken the kitchen and squatting teenagers had claimed the living room as their late night shindig joint? so she went to the place where any sane resident of the town would go after a rough, strenuous day when all they really needed was to let loose, chug a tequila, and dance until they felt seasick enough to skinny dip ; fannies, where she was anonymous, standoffish enough for the regulars ignore her yet frequent enough for the bartender to know her drink order as soon as she neared the bar.
quiz night was wrapping up, a younger crowd than usual. the median age was probably thirty-six, and for the first time natalya felt too old for a place in her pin striped trousers and her pussybow blouse. she decided to just bra and blazer it in an attempt to fit in ( that was vogue, right ? ) popping the buttons of her blouse undone to pull it off and stuff it into her purse as she waited for her drinks ( a large glass of merlot and a shot of patron ). shrugging her blazer on, she rolled up the sleeves, a pop of red lace visible beneath her suit that felt both slutty and empowering. suddenly self-aware, she reapplied her eyeliner in the reflective screen of her phone, dragging out the wing, smudging black into her waterline. standing back to look at herself, she noticed another patron in the reflection of her phone, and with a reluctant sigh, announced. “do you want a shot ? i ordered one and now i don’t want it, but i’d feel like a dick to say no when they’ve poured it.“ she reapplied her lipstick — pillarbox red, like the lace frill of her bra, the heel of her stillettos and the strap of her bag ( she loved an accent colour) — and sunk down onto the bar stool next to the other patron. “honestly you’d be doing me a favour. saves me from looking like a washed-up forty-something drinking alone.” her laugh was curt and acidic, like the squirt of lime that followed a tequila shot. @irvingstarters
