✦ — NADJA.
“yeah, i’ll bet you fuckin’ are.” nadja’s lips curved into a knowing, good-natured smirk. drunk people needed a certain kind of hand depending on the type. some people, assholes in their own right when riddled with SOBRIETY, became absolutely impossible. those were the ones she liked to PUSH. she could push a man to the brink in the spaces between a few choice words and since it was her place ( her and rochi’s ), and there were NO LAWS ( save those of man ), she could do whatever she wanted. rosario and nadja were their own sheriffs. kids like this? they needed TIME. they needed someone to look out for them, a cup of coffee, maybe some greasy breakfast that didn’t exist for anyone but spectres that haunted diners across america.
nadja raised an annoyed, if not amused, brow at his challenge. so much hubris, built from liquid courage that churned and boiled in his belly. “and you don’t have to be in my bar,” she warned, almost a mother’s cautionary tone somewhere in her gravelly voice, “but sometimes the universe makes a fuckin’ exception.” she should’ve been in canada even now, after all this time. she didn’t have to ( like he’d said ) leave vancouver to meet some band in cheyenne, wyoming just to get away from ANOTHER failed relationship. the only thing, as far as nadja was concerned, that a person really had to fuckin’ do was die. there were PLENTY of those poor sons of bitches roaming the city–the ones whom had been unable to stave off the inevitable. theirs was a fate much worse than death.
glad to see the kid slide into the booth, huffing with palpable defeat, a sturdy fist beat the back of a worn leather jacket behind her. “hey–” she demanded the man’s attention. “go get me a coffee from rosario. move your ass.” HARD EYES were stronger than words and the man nodded politely, excusing himself from rowdy conversation and milling his way through the crowd to the bar. those who were regulars knew how to keep their cups full and their scales balanced in the favor of los abuelos’ prolific owners.
attention back at the kid, nadja realized she’d hit a nerve. an old pet name from someone long loved and dead? something darker, deeper perhaps? there was no way of knowing and she didn’t care to pry anymore than she cared to share her own weak points. everyone had an ACHILLES HEEL and it was so rare that they were the teeth and claws of real threats, but rather the small tragedies of daily life, long since diagnosed terminal in a dying world. “alright, karate kid.” she changed the nickname back to something attached to the present as the man delivered their coffee. thanking him with a curt nod, she slid a cup to the boy. “I’d offer you cream of sugar, but I don’t fuckin’ have any.” she cracked her knuckles and pulled an ashtray closer to her, lighting a cigarettes–holding it firm between her teeth as she continued to speak. “besides only bad mother fuckers drink their coffee black.” an offering of some of his, likely bruised, ego back.
tired eyes slowly shut. the anger didn’t fizzle out like he wanted it to. instead, it grew. every retort shot at his direction made it bigger, sharper, uglier. he tried to dismantle it, tear it apart limb from limb before it could grow larger than him. but it tore through him. his pulse simmered. the feeling demanded a target, or at least something to chew on. devrim pressed the cup between his thumb and forefinger just to ground himself, welcoming the sharp sting of heat on his skin. right then, he envied the woman and her ability to wield her aggression like a switchblade and not care whom it cut. he didn’t have that kind of strength. silence was the only armor he could afford.
SIT YOUR SORRY ASS DOWN or YOU DON’T HAVE TO BE IN MY BAR? which was it? angry as he was, his inhibitions were no longer low enough to let him point out the contradiction; devrim kept the retort to himself. talking to her felt like walking on thin ice — a misstep could send him falling, not to the harsh and unforgiving cold, but to the casual but fierce fury of a woman scorned. the only defense he had on him was carefulness — carefulness and tact — and with alcohol, that went away, too. right then, he was glad of the sobriety slowly descending on him. self-control was a relief.
❝ you win, ❞ he said, finally. he kept his voice even, though his words held a quiet anger. the cup had lost much of his warmth by then; not all of it, but enough that a touch no longer seared the skin. eyes fell on the drink, staring at it blankly, frustrated at how the laws of thermodynamics denied him even the basic pleasure of a distracting sensation — until peripheral vision caught a glimpse of the cigarette between the woman’s teeth. he spared it a quick glance, then let his gaze fall back on the cup, almost frowning. he sighed to himself. maybe some bad motherfuckers just want to sleep. nonetheless, he took a sip, but in his mind, the image of the cigarette persisted.
devrim didn’t smoke. the prospect of losing himself to bad habits terrified him. alcohol was the exception; the immediate aftereffects were the reason innocent curiosity never evolved into addiction. now, with how bad the present seemed to be, it sometimes seemed miraculous that he hadn’t fell victim to every vice that existed. if cigarettes hadn’t come at a price — he couldn’t image what he’d have to TRADE for a pack — the consequences of developing a taste for nicotine would seem far less grave than they used to be. the outbreak introduced a thousand new ways for a person to die. lung cancer seemed less awful than all of them. ❝ how much for one of that? ❞
