part 1 of ?
surprise, i’m alive and so is this blog! here’s a lil thing inspired by this interview that i shamelessly listened to in a therapist’s waiting room! no plot/purpose other than to get me writing again. and bc i love van. also sorry for this long post but read more’s are broken and i can’t figure it out while stealing this starbuck’s shitty wifi. xxxx
___
Her job wasn’t interesting or glamorous or even enjoyable really. Most of the time it was boring and repetitive and sometimes downright gross. As a little girl, she never saw herself as a barmaid living off of tips in a cold studio flat but that was where she ended up. It paid the bills and kept her out of her parents' house and the tips even bought her a new winter coat. Someday, she’d be better off, living in a big city like Dublin or London. Maybe even New York. Someday, she’d have a proper apartment or maybe even a little row house. Someday, she’d have a real, adult job that not only fulfilled her obligations but her soul as well.
Someday was exactly what she was dreaming of when her next patron took a seat at the end of the sticky, wooden bar. He tore her out of her daydreams, a feat in itself. He wasn’t a regular customer nor did he look the correct age for the pub’s usual demographic. In fact, she didn’t seem to recognize him at all which was also a feat in a town of just 2,000.
She slid down the bar toward him, eyeing him up warily, “What can I get you?”
He looked about her age with dark messy hair and unusually tan skin dotted with freckles. She didn’t recognize him as a friend of a friend or someone from her school days.
“A pint, please,” he flashed a smile that showed crooked teeth, “Guinness.”
Definitely not Irish. She held back an eye roll. In a town so small it was hard to not be too cautious or overly protective of her town toward tourists. Still, she reminded herself, they were paying customers, people just like her. Even if they crowded the rocky beaches in the summer or forgot to tip her or littered the main street with cigarette butts and gum.
“Sure,” she smiled tightly, wiping her hands on her apron and reaching for a heavy pint glass.
She never understood the touristy appeal, watching the thick, dark liquid foam in the tilted glass. She felt his eyes on her but it didn’t make her squirm like it normally did with her older patrons. When her own eyes flicked up, he was watching her in awe as if she’d performed a miracle in front of his eyes. Definitely a tourist.
“Where are ya from?” she tried to make polite conversation as she waited for the foam to rise and settle. She could really use a nice tip to pick up some bread and milk the next morning.
His freckled cheeks turned pink, “Is it that obvious?”
She liked that he didn’t take offense and offered him a genuine but small smile, “Well, you have a tan and an odd accent and you ordered a pint of the black stuff.”
“Don’t call it that, sounds like tar or summat,” he wrinkled his nose and sighed, “Was born in Cheshire, bounced around a bit, but mostly grew up in Wales.”
She nodded and topped off his pint glass as if it wasn’t odd that he’d ended up in such a tiny, obscure town, “What brings you here?”
He seemed to hesitate for a moment too long, chewing on his bottom lip. A thousand terrible possibilities flashed through her brain as she waited. A thousand more yellow flags. She’d decided to keep her mouth shut after that... Until he spoke again.
“Work, I s’pose,” he watched her slide the pint toward him, “Dunno if you can really call it that. I’m in a band. We’re making an album down at Grouse Lodge.”
Her heart went from thudding heavily to nearly stopping, her hand freezing and hesitating for a moment too long on the pint glass in front of him. Music.
“R-really?” her throat felt dry but she tried her best to sound as casual as possible. She wondered if he could see right through her. He was probably used to it, girls jumping at the mention of him being in a band. Girls who wanted to fame or the connection or maybe just to get him into their bed.
If he could see through her, she couldn’t read it and she didn’t like that. Usually, she was good at reading other people but his poker face was like no other. Or maybe it was just those eyes that distracted her too much. She was still trying to decide what color they were.
He shrugged, picking up the full glass and eyeing it carefully, “Well, trying to make an album. Our third.”
“Not going well?” her mouth asked as her brain screamed at her to stop. But the pub was dead, no one waiting on her for another round, and it was rare there was ever anyone her age willing to make conversation.
He took a sip and she tried to gauge his reaction. Again, unreadable.
“Nah, just me,” he smiled weakly, oblivious to the line of foam above his lip that made her smile back, “I always thought writer’s block was a load of shit. ‘Til I got it.”
A writer and a musician. Fuck.
“Well if you’ve written two albums before, surely it won’t last,” she grabbed a raggedy towel to wipe her hands. She needed to stop letting her heart get ahead of her brain.
He shrugged again, his shoulders appearing even heavier than before, “I hope not,” her eyes flicked back to his and he flashed her a crooked grin, “It’s beautiful but isolated. Gets a bit lonely sometimes which I reckon doesn’t help.” She watched as he trailed off, his index finger tracing the rim of his glass before his grin widened as if he’d just had the most brilliant idea, “You should come ‘round sometime.”
