Emily stood outside with her back against the tavern wall, holding a cup of tea in one hand. It was a gloomy afternoon; the sky above Stormwind was hidden beneath a blanket of dark, fluffy clouds, pregnant with rain. The air was neither cold nor warm, and felt heavy on her skin. She was clad in leather boots, faded, fitted trousers, and an equally worn out sleeveless shirt. Glancing up at the sky, quiet and contemplative, she drew in a slow breath through her nose. The smell of black tea with milk didn’t excite her.
The days passed by slowly, and became increasingly difficult for her to recall. Each day, Emily woke, drank a cup of coffee, ate a full breakfast, went for a walk, ate lunch, took a nap, woke, had a bath, drank a cup of tea, had a chat - with one of the staff, a patron, it didn’t matter who - retired to her room to do push-ups, then came back downstairs for dinner. She drank liquor at dinner (as for how much: it was somewhere between just enough to feel pleasant and enough to kill a horse), and then she went to bed alone.
She took a sip of her tea. Soon, she would go back inside and strike up a chat with someone, anyone. She had not deviated from this routine in… well, she had lost track of how many days it had been. As she wondered how her mates were, the first drop of rain splattered against the cobblestone. More followed, producing a gentle patter that rose in a rapid crescendo, until the water roared, and Emily could hear nothing else.
There wasn’t much cover outside the tavern, and she was soaked within a minute, but she remained unmoving, even as her half-full cup of tea was being watered down, even as she was chilled to the bone. It felt good, felt… clean, felt like home. When she walked back in, one of the pretty girls behind the bar would probably make fun of her for standing out there for so long. She’d have to change into dry clothes before dinner, or she’d never hear the end of it.
She slicked her hair back with her free hand, gulped down her cold, watery tea, and closed her eyes. If she stopped looking, she was almost there, almost home. If she was discreet about it, she could cry here and now, and no one would ever be the wiser.
(( @daily-writing-challenge ))
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