disgust with Nico's actions, the only thing she'd been able to think about was her desire to see John Gillis. Every time she thought about his words, picturing his face in the photo, so kind yet so unsure, she could see him speaking to her. She needed that, needed to feel something real.
She sipped the cool, lime-flavored beer and curled her legs underneath her. She stared at the faint crack in the ceiling, over the entrance to the bathroom, a scar from the flood in the upstairs apartment that had eaten through the plaster.
Esther rarely went to bars, and never alone. Occasionally she'd go to after hour networking soirees, traditionally held at trendy village watering holes with names like “Lumbar” and “Fresh”. She would chat with other young industry types, mocking the more ridiculous queries and stubborn authors that had come their way, dissecting literary trends and bemoaning the lack of upward mobility within their companies.
She longed for her old, carefree days. Going to bars with girlfriends, flirting with boys while secretly knowing they didn't have a chance in hell. The breezy, stress-free feeling of a world devoid of expectations. She'd loved the thrill of the cat-and-mouse game, but once the real world claimed her, the mouse hole had quickly sealed up and suddenly the cat was too busy to play.
What's the big deal anyway? It's just a bar. They serve drinks. Plenty of people do that without attacks of conscience. Besides, if he's scummy or I don't feel like staying, I'll leave.
And why did she feel the need to overanalyze? John didn't need to know she worked for Nico. If he asked, she'd make something up. If he asked.
If he was interested.
Esther stood up and took another sip.
What did she have to lose?
Chapter Five
J ohn choked down the first buffalo wing down with a swig of Ginger Ale. The second one tasted like asphalt. The third tasted like barbecue-flavored Pepto Bismol. He tossed the rest out before his stomach threw up the white flag.
There was nothing 'atomic' about Sal Marvio's wings, unless salmonella poisoning fell under the title of “biohazard”. He took the remaining nine, made sure nobody was looking, and scraped them into the garbage. He replaced the plate and rubbed his stomach.
“As good as always Sal,” he said, watching the small man nod ambivalently from the kitchen.
“I made them special for you,” Sal said, his voice strangely muffled. Sal had been caught twice smoking cigars in the kitchen. So far, he didn't seem to be learning from his mistakes. Strange too, John thought. but whenever he makes wings for a paying customer, they turn out fine. He makes them for me, they taste like damp cereal. John washed the aftertaste down with water and gave a fake blonde a refill on her vodka tonic.
He was expecting Paul to show up any minute. Classes ended early on Fridays, his direct deposit went through, and after grading a batch of papers Paul came straight to Slappy's. Things hadn't worked out between Paul and the Kendra; two phone calls had gone unreturned and four emails ignored. John had the West Marion Quarterly mag ready to go. Thirty-fourth time's a charm .
John took a breath, enjoying the smell of a nearly empty Slappy's. All the soggy shoes and sweaty bodies made it downright unpleasant late at night. He sniffed the faint cologne emanating from a trio of businessmen, sour silver polish from the heavily bejeweled woman with the twelve-dollar scotch. She'd been sitting at the bar for almost an hour and a half and was only on her second drink. Her eyes stared down at the dark countertop and her finger traced the wood gently, as if caressing the skin of a lover. Her other hand held the drink glass, her fingers barely squeezing the tumbler.
She was clearly uninterested in the drink itself; holding a cold glass by the bottom warmed it faster and, especially in the case of scotch on the rocks, watered it down that much quicker. Every few minutes she would take a small sip,
She sipped the cool, lime-flavored beer and curled her legs underneath her. She stared at the faint crack in the ceiling, over the entrance to the bathroom, a scar from the flood in the upstairs apartment that had eaten through the plaster.
Esther rarely went to bars, and never alone. Occasionally she'd go to after hour networking soirees, traditionally held at trendy village watering holes with names like “Lumbar” and “Fresh”. She would chat with other young industry types, mocking the more ridiculous queries and stubborn authors that had come their way, dissecting literary trends and bemoaning the lack of upward mobility within their companies.
She longed for her old, carefree days. Going to bars with girlfriends, flirting with boys while secretly knowing they didn't have a chance in hell. The breezy, stress-free feeling of a world devoid of expectations. She'd loved the thrill of the cat-and-mouse game, but once the real world claimed her, the mouse hole had quickly sealed up and suddenly the cat was too busy to play.
What's the big deal anyway? It's just a bar. They serve drinks. Plenty of people do that without attacks of conscience. Besides, if he's scummy or I don't feel like staying, I'll leave.
And why did she feel the need to overanalyze? John didn't need to know she worked for Nico. If he asked, she'd make something up. If he asked.
If he was interested.
Esther stood up and took another sip.
What did she have to lose?
Chapter Five
J ohn choked down the first buffalo wing down with a swig of Ginger Ale. The second one tasted like asphalt. The third tasted like barbecue-flavored Pepto Bismol. He tossed the rest out before his stomach threw up the white flag.
There was nothing 'atomic' about Sal Marvio's wings, unless salmonella poisoning fell under the title of “biohazard”. He took the remaining nine, made sure nobody was looking, and scraped them into the garbage. He replaced the plate and rubbed his stomach.
“As good as always Sal,” he said, watching the small man nod ambivalently from the kitchen.
“I made them special for you,” Sal said, his voice strangely muffled. Sal had been caught twice smoking cigars in the kitchen. So far, he didn't seem to be learning from his mistakes. Strange too, John thought. but whenever he makes wings for a paying customer, they turn out fine. He makes them for me, they taste like damp cereal. John washed the aftertaste down with water and gave a fake blonde a refill on her vodka tonic.
He was expecting Paul to show up any minute. Classes ended early on Fridays, his direct deposit went through, and after grading a batch of papers Paul came straight to Slappy's. Things hadn't worked out between Paul and the Kendra; two phone calls had gone unreturned and four emails ignored. John had the West Marion Quarterly mag ready to go. Thirty-fourth time's a charm .
John took a breath, enjoying the smell of a nearly empty Slappy's. All the soggy shoes and sweaty bodies made it downright unpleasant late at night. He sniffed the faint cologne emanating from a trio of businessmen, sour silver polish from the heavily bejeweled woman with the twelve-dollar scotch. She'd been sitting at the bar for almost an hour and a half and was only on her second drink. Her eyes stared down at the dark countertop and her finger traced the wood gently, as if caressing the skin of a lover. Her other hand held the drink glass, her fingers barely squeezing the tumbler.
She was clearly uninterested in the drink itself; holding a cold glass by the bottom warmed it faster and, especially in the case of scotch on the rocks, watered it down that much quicker. Every few minutes she would take a small sip,
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