for tips, she sees no point in trying anymore.
“Um, yeah,” I say, knowing if I ask for more time she’ll never pass by again. “I guess I’ll just have the buffalo wings—oh, and um, a Sprite too. Thanks,” I add, committing the cardinal sin of sliding the menu toward her, and watching as she huffs, shakes her head, and punches it back into the holder where it came from.
“Anything else?” she asks, and despite her surly, beaten-down tone and defeated, hardened slant of a mouth, I’m guessing she’s only a handful of years older than me.
I’m also guessing she might’ve once been the town beauty queen. There are traces that linger by way of her long acrylic nails, freshly filled from what I can tell—carefully tended dark roots bleached a light, yellow blond—and black lace push-up bra that heaves her breasts so high and round they threaten to spill out the top of her tight white tank top, causing the name tag that reads: MARLIZ! to teeter like a seesaw—but for whatever reason, it still wasn’t enough to buy her escape.
“I need to charge my phone,” I tell her. “Is there a vacant outlet I can use?”
She jabs a thumb over her shoulder, her modest bump of a bicep jumping in a way that begs me to notice the intricate snake tattoo that winds its way from her wrist all the way up to her shoulder and unseen points just beyond. “Talk to the bartender,” she barks, turning to tap an overworked busboy on the back, ordering him to clear my table ASAP, before she heads into the kitchen, her hip leading the way through a set of swinging doors that appear to swallow her whole.
I head for the bar, making sure to keep an eye on my stuff as I flag down the bartender, which is easier said than done. But before I can speak, he’s already eyeballing my hand, the one with the stamp, and directing me back to my seat.
His back turned toward me when I say, “Hey! Excuse me—I’m not trying to order a drink—I just want to charge my phone. Do you think you could help me with that? I’m pretty sure you must have an available outlet somewhere.”
He stops, heavily lidded dark eyes gazing down the long strip of bar, studying me in a way that causes everyone else to lower their drinks and study me too. Making me wonder if I should just grab my bag and retreat. Get myself to that bus stop and take my chances on getting spotted by Paloma or Chay or whoever else she has working for her.
I don’t like being stared at, especially like this. It reminds me too much of the way the glowing people watch me. The crows too. Reminds me of that awful night in Marrakesh, when the Djemâa el Fna turned into a sea of dark flashing eyes and bloody, severed heads hanging from spikes.
I take a deep breath and rid my mind of the image. Glancing over my shoulder to check on my stuff as the bartender says, “Got a charger?”
I nod, unable to tear myself from his gaze once I’ve returned it.
“So…” He flattens his palm, looks at me like I’m the dumbest thing he ever saw.
And even though I’m reluctant to hand it over, it’s not like I have other options. Still, I can’t help the way my stomach lurches when he closes his tattooed fingers around the phone and leaves without a word. Disappearing down a long corridor as I return to my seat, where I slurp my Sprite and pick at my basket of buffalo wings, all the while keeping tabs on my watch, willing the hands to move faster, never having wanted to leave a place so badly as this.
A crowd of people push past the bouncer—four guys trying to look tough in their baggy jeans, beer-brand tees, and camouflage hats—while their dates try to look hot with their puffy hair, teetering stilettos, cleavage-baring tops, and jeans slung so low their assortment of tramp stamps and belly rings are neatly displayed. Their eyes narrowing when they catch me staring, then forgetting me just as quickly once the song changes from an old Red Hot Chili Peppers tune to a classic Santana song
“Um, yeah,” I say, knowing if I ask for more time she’ll never pass by again. “I guess I’ll just have the buffalo wings—oh, and um, a Sprite too. Thanks,” I add, committing the cardinal sin of sliding the menu toward her, and watching as she huffs, shakes her head, and punches it back into the holder where it came from.
“Anything else?” she asks, and despite her surly, beaten-down tone and defeated, hardened slant of a mouth, I’m guessing she’s only a handful of years older than me.
I’m also guessing she might’ve once been the town beauty queen. There are traces that linger by way of her long acrylic nails, freshly filled from what I can tell—carefully tended dark roots bleached a light, yellow blond—and black lace push-up bra that heaves her breasts so high and round they threaten to spill out the top of her tight white tank top, causing the name tag that reads: MARLIZ! to teeter like a seesaw—but for whatever reason, it still wasn’t enough to buy her escape.
“I need to charge my phone,” I tell her. “Is there a vacant outlet I can use?”
She jabs a thumb over her shoulder, her modest bump of a bicep jumping in a way that begs me to notice the intricate snake tattoo that winds its way from her wrist all the way up to her shoulder and unseen points just beyond. “Talk to the bartender,” she barks, turning to tap an overworked busboy on the back, ordering him to clear my table ASAP, before she heads into the kitchen, her hip leading the way through a set of swinging doors that appear to swallow her whole.
I head for the bar, making sure to keep an eye on my stuff as I flag down the bartender, which is easier said than done. But before I can speak, he’s already eyeballing my hand, the one with the stamp, and directing me back to my seat.
His back turned toward me when I say, “Hey! Excuse me—I’m not trying to order a drink—I just want to charge my phone. Do you think you could help me with that? I’m pretty sure you must have an available outlet somewhere.”
He stops, heavily lidded dark eyes gazing down the long strip of bar, studying me in a way that causes everyone else to lower their drinks and study me too. Making me wonder if I should just grab my bag and retreat. Get myself to that bus stop and take my chances on getting spotted by Paloma or Chay or whoever else she has working for her.
I don’t like being stared at, especially like this. It reminds me too much of the way the glowing people watch me. The crows too. Reminds me of that awful night in Marrakesh, when the Djemâa el Fna turned into a sea of dark flashing eyes and bloody, severed heads hanging from spikes.
I take a deep breath and rid my mind of the image. Glancing over my shoulder to check on my stuff as the bartender says, “Got a charger?”
I nod, unable to tear myself from his gaze once I’ve returned it.
“So…” He flattens his palm, looks at me like I’m the dumbest thing he ever saw.
And even though I’m reluctant to hand it over, it’s not like I have other options. Still, I can’t help the way my stomach lurches when he closes his tattooed fingers around the phone and leaves without a word. Disappearing down a long corridor as I return to my seat, where I slurp my Sprite and pick at my basket of buffalo wings, all the while keeping tabs on my watch, willing the hands to move faster, never having wanted to leave a place so badly as this.
A crowd of people push past the bouncer—four guys trying to look tough in their baggy jeans, beer-brand tees, and camouflage hats—while their dates try to look hot with their puffy hair, teetering stilettos, cleavage-baring tops, and jeans slung so low their assortment of tramp stamps and belly rings are neatly displayed. Their eyes narrowing when they catch me staring, then forgetting me just as quickly once the song changes from an old Red Hot Chili Peppers tune to a classic Santana song
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