On the Rocks

By Thalia

In a smoky hole-in-the-wall bar like thousands of other smoky hole-in-the-wall bars across the country, an auburn-haired barmaid in a low-cut blouse listens to the wild-eyed man's lamentations-- and what else is new, really? It should mean nothing.

Callisto's isn't an establishment with drink specials and DJs and musical remixes. The paint on the sign is peeling green, faded with rain and wind, and the E on the neon "open" sign does not light. There are no strippers-- indeed, the barmaid-- whose face is more lines than makeup despite her young age-- is the closest one would get, with her vixenish pin-up-girl hair and lush curves. She goes by Lita, which might be short for any number of more pretentious names. But pretension loses its hold on a place like this.

The man crouched at the bar is on his fifth shot of Scotch on the rocks. And Lita's face, as she patiently and stoically listens to yet another tale of woe from yet another man who comes in with a few crumpled bills and a broken dream or three, is almost as dispassionate as usual.

He's unshaven, and his hair looks far too long to be dignified. It's just a shade darker than the single-malt in his glass. It's getting too long and shaggy, and if Lita'd known him better, she would've mussed it with her fingers. But she doesn't, and so she just pours him water in between his drinks and listens to his story. He's far too beautiful for a place like this, really-- she's never seen anyone like him.

"You broke me from the very first," his voice is slurred, dejected, and she nods wordlessly. "But I'll love you til the day that I die." The last is spoken with a sort of steely conviction that is somehow unaffected by his drunken state. Of course, he isn't talking about her, but Lita puts that thought aside. Just a customer, just another source of tips. But it is hard to draw herself away from his eyes.

She clears her throat awkwardly, picks up the twiglike half-gone Virginia Slim she'd set down on the ashtray and takes a drag. "Take a drink of water, honey. Don't drink that Scotch so fast," she says quietly. Ever the efficient barmaid, and she's certainly said the words before-- to every heartsick soul that passed through the door of Callisto's.

He does, and for a moment, he almost looks sober, sapphire eyes locking with emerald ones. She holds his intense gaze because she can hide behind the thought that he's drunk, and because she's seen it all. But even then, she's tempted to look away.

"You're so beautiful, you know?" he suddenly says out of nowhere, the slur in his voice so faint that she barely notices it. One slightly unsteady hand reaches out and touches the delicate skin at the corner of her eye. She flinches. "Green eyes. Melantha had green eyes."

Melantha must be the lost love-- the bitch who broke his heart, then. She doesn't want to look like Melantha. Briefly, she closes those damning green eyes and tries to imagine that they are simply compliments directed at her. The hand withdraws from her face, and he finishes his whiskey. And the moment ends.

And he bows his head and she carefully moves the glasses away, wiping the counter efficiently with her other hand. She takes a final drag on her cigarette and stubs it out in the ashtray, watching the smoke rise out of it and enshroud both of them in a film of gray. "I think that's enough booze for you tonight," she says with a forced levity. "You're gonna have a hell of a hangover in the morning." That, and he is getting far too comfortable here. And really, it isn't his fault that he's in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong girl. She smiles ironically at the thought. Wrong place, wrong time, wrong girl. Sounds like something out of a cheesy cop show.

He nods blearily in agreement and stumbles to his feet, and she walks out from behind the bar to help him to the door. He wraps one arm around her shoulders and leans heavily on her and it almost feels affectionate and loving. He smells of whiskey and a minty cologne and his leather trench coat is smooth under her fingers. She takes a deep breath, glances at the rusty metal door in front of them, and pushes it open with her free hand, letting the wind and cold hit them in the face. He's dressed more warmly than she is and she draws closer to him because of the chill, and he doesn't seem to mind at all.

She smiles sadly at the strong, handsome face, flushed with alcohol and full of byronic melancholy, and whistles loudly for a cab. It's two o'clock in the morning and she watches yet another broken man drive away from her little oasis in the middle of a barren land. He'll sleep it off and throw up in the morning and purge everything out of his system then. She shall go back home to her tiny little apartment and inwardly curse some unknown woman called Melantha who looks like her, and she'll never see him again.

Because in a few months, he'll fall in love with someone else who may or may not have green eyes and take her to a nicer bar where they'll sip martinis and margaritas instead of whiskey on the rocks. And tomorrow she'll force a smile as louder, rowdier men hoot at her and clamour for more beer. She'll mop up spills and break a glass or two and stare at the stains on the linoleum and wonder what his name was.

She shivers now, feeling the chill left now that he's gone and she's standing alone in the wind, and walks back inside, closing the door behind her. She wishes him well. Really. She doesn't wish ill of any customer.