roxanne;
It'd been a long day.
That wasn't saying a typical at the club was enjoyable, or even particularly easy, Bridget reflected sourly as she pulled one sky-high stiletto of her left foot and tossed it sourly into the cubby beneath her vanity in the girls' shared dressing room. But most weren't as terribly awful as this particular Friday'd been. Her clients were awful, her regulars hadn't even made it, and the coworker she'd wrestled the stage from for the 9:00-11:00 shift had retaliated by spiking her cocktail with hot sauce. She felt exhausted and filthy and ready to curl up into a hole and never come out, like always, she mused sourly as she wiped off her mascara. But the day was over, and while she didn't entirely believe it, she consoled herself with the thought that tomorrow would be better. And even if it was pure shit, surely it would be better than today, she mused internally as the loud bass of the club throbbed against her skull, increasing her already-present headache exponentially. She needed to get out of this damned club. And fast.
Pulling on an oversized sweatshirt, worn pair of jeans, and lovingly scuffed Doc Martens, she pulled her unruly waves into a ponytail at the nape of her neck. Leaving the club and waiting just outside under a well illuminated doorstep, a sense of dread washed over her as she realized her normal companion wasn't waiting to walk her home down dimly lit streets and through seedy parts of town. Fearing the worst, she reached into her bag for her phone and checked her messages. Two from Patrick, and a frown crossed her her lips as she read them. "Sorry can't make it" read one, and the next was similar: "running late at work." The hurried nature of the messages depended her frown, and with a sigh she chucked the phone back into the tote.
At least he wasn't hurt, she consoled herself, but as she set off on the long walk home she felt a dark shiver running down her spine. The roads looked awfully dark, only growing darker as she stared down their inky depths, but with a sharp breath she set off on her trek. What was the worst that could happen? She asked herself as she clutched tightly to her keys between her index and middle fingers, jumping as a car alarm sounded just inches from her body and shrieking-then cursing herself for girlish weakness-as a cat yowled and ran across her path. Her heart racing, she consoled herself with the thought that she'd walked this road hundreds of times with Patrick, and, obviously, it wasn't like it had suddenly changed overnight. She'd be fine. Alone or not.
Wouldn't she?