@morbidmatt
“So,” said the bartender as she placed a Peach Schnapps bottle back in its place behind the bar. “What’s your plan now, kid?”
Mary stared into the mixed drink she couldn’t afford. Such a pretty color. With a small shrug and tear-clouded eyes, she managed a weak, “I don’t know.”
How long did Mary sit on that bar stool? Had it been six hours already? How many nights in a row did she duck into The Lighthouse, and pray to God they wouldn’t ask for proof she was old enough to buy their pretty cocktails? Five nights, so far, and now that Rhonda-the-bartender knew everything, Mary’s world sat on the cusp of change.
“Maybe I can make a few calls for you,” said Rhonda. Mary didn’t look up. The police would know what to do with her. Rhonda stared at Mary, sitting there with her blue eyes on that drink like the answers were in there. Poor girl, thought Rhonda, and moved along to greet another patron at the bar.
Mary told her everything. Rhonda finally asked for identification, and Mary wept. From the death of her parents and the tragedy that the foster system was, to being homeless for five days and almost out of money, she confessed it all. It was only pity that saved Mary from being tossed out on her ass, along with the one backpack holding everything she owned, but pity wouldn’t last the night. Mary wouldn’t.
She brushed her wild, tangled mess of black curls away from her ghost-white face. All her clothes were dirty now. Even the faded navy blue skirt she wore had little stains from spilling one drink or another, and dirt smeared across the back from sitting on one too many dirty curbs. Her pink sweater too, hung awkwardly off her skinny frame and needed a few loving stitches to put it right again. Mary swallowed, hungry. Her stomach growled and begged for something. Anything.
Mary wiped her eyes - always leaking these days - and hopped off her seat so she could squat next to her bag and dig around its meager contents. She pulled a coin purse out that’d once been pretty. The coins jingled as she pushed them around, and their silver sound sounded like a cruel laugh. A few quarters. A couple dimes. Her eyes swept from the little pouch to the bar. A few men and women looked at her askance. What was a girl like that doing in a bar?
Mary swallowed and turned her face away. She stared at the boots of a man at the bar as she tried to think. Think. Think. She’d never been much good at that.