𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 / ft. @kalixus. st. peter’s bar, ashford, ca. march 28th, 4:32 pm.
𝐋𝐈𝐅𝐄, 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐍𝐃, had found a way to begin repeating itself. even now, even here: in the thick of a so-called new beginning. it had done so discreetly, sneaking up on her not with the tightening of a noose or an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia: her routine had settled in gently, comfortable almost, like a blanket, like a well rehearsed line that somehow always got the laugh. behind the counter of st. peter’s, freddie dawson reinvented herself as the patron saint of purgatory and stood among bottles and glasses, as she had for the past four years or so. waltzing up and down her path like a guardian well acquainted with her kingdom: patrons would gesture for whiskey, for sherry, and once or twice entice her creativity with a cocktail she hadn’t been able to try her hand at yet, and she would smile, crack a joke, dutifully head towards her task as if that, too, was a test meant to prove her belonging to such a place. she would pour this and that, and take whatever conversation they were willing to produce with grace, like an offering to an altar: looks like rain, doesn’t it ? sure does, ned —— it’s about time. it all went along predictably, a script she knew by heart — only the weather still presented its fair share of variability. and though this dull life was peaceful to her, and she’d caught herself calling it shelter more than once, freddie surprised herself when the smell of a gathering storm came in through the door, and she caught herself harboring a nervous excitement at the prospect.
the gentleman who’d carried it with him, upon opening the door to st. peter’s, seemed tall enough to have to crouch through the entrance — or perhaps it was just her imagination, drawing cartoonish details where there were none, drawing a light grin from her lips where there was no amusement. the motions were mechanical, these too aptly rehearsed: she’d put down her glass of water, wipe her hands, step closer to the bar top. “ just in time, uh ? ”. freddie nodded towards the windows, where the stained glass couldn’t hide the wind picking up, streetlamps trembling, and the thickening darkness of clouds gathering up above. but the shadow of mesmerized concern crossed her face only briefly: step four in the usual routine was a smile, reassuring any lost soul who’d wandered in st. peter’s that they’d stumbled into the right place. nevermind their ailments, the scars. she saw one on his face, across the bridge of his nose: if this was a book, she thought briefly, that’d be the passing detail introducing a major character. the unwilling hero of the story, marked for tragedy from the very first page. fred smiled. “ hi. what can i do ya for ? ”.
