saintfred:
some shifts, at times, can break the laws of spacetime. she’s not that educated in the matter, but if you asked her she’d swear that’s some sort of black hole in the back of hoopers that makes tuesday drag on forever, relentless in its quest to cancel the awareness on time. she doesn’t usually mind — the mess is good, a welcome element in which to drown entirely, stop her brain from going places she can’t control. it keeps her out of the apartment, of the paradox that it is, when emptiness and chaos and just remind her, once again, that emptying her life of all variables won’t make what’s inside make any more sense.
tonight, however, she’s tired. the hours have piled up on her skin making it worn, pale — she longs for sleep, a glass of wine before that, and perhaps even the chance to nurse her sadness, take care of it like she would an old friend she often forgets to visit. she’d like that — not this much noise, these many lights. it’s an odd thing for freddie dawson to long for quiet. a customer at the other side of the counter — looks like the night is just nowhere near its ending.
she sees the smile first — bright, contagious, enough to make her feel embarrassed for her own sour mood. she attempts a mirrored image of that same enthusiasm, though it comes out lazy, somewhat crooked. the laugh — that, however, is genuine, as tired as it sounds. “i’m having a long night”, freddie lets out a sigh, grateful for the chance to catch her breath and pause her endless running, even if just for the time span of an order. another laugh echoes the woman’s words. “i don’t think anyone’s ever asked me for a drink menu in nine years i’ve been working behind this counter” , she jokes, her laughs coming in heavy, tired scoffs that betray her tiredness but are still coming from a place of friendly irony. freddie steps aside, turning halfway to the liquor shelf so the customer could have a clearer view. “just name whatever and i’ll get it for you. we’re not that classy, at hoopers”.
sitting on the stool, taking in all the light and the sound, iseult takes in the sight of the woman and finds her charmed (almost feels the temptation to try and dye her hair red; she always wanted to be a redhead, back when she was a kid). charmed and like looking at a mirror - clearly, the long days and nights are displayed on her face, can be heard in her voice and iseult is taken back to those exhausting first years in sydney, in medical school and internship ( and trying to keep afloat by escorting on the side, always looking behind her shoulder). but she smiles, now more softly, brightening down ( reminding herself not to be too cheery, or else look like you’re hiding something, even through she’s hiding several things ). ❝ sorry, ❞ iseult says, grimacing, ❝ night shift isn’t fun either; but i’ll make sure to stay out of your hair. if i don’t, ❞ iseult then says drily, but lightly, ❝ feel free to smack the hell out of me and leave me out in the desert for forgetting my manners. ❞
Now rapping against the wood, an old habit for when she tries to think, she then simply puts her elbow on the bar and rests her chin on her head, clearly thinking. dear god, i haven’t had a drink in almost two years, too busy to be having one, iseult murmurs, both to herself and to fred. now, looking at fred, she smiles and asks, ❝ without causing any problems, but what would you say is your best drinks in the house? seeing you’ve being here far longer than I have? or do you want to leave me in the desert for lack conviction as well as lacking manners? ❞
