{en☩er☩ain my fai☩h} alyclear
Aug 4, 2015 20:36:31 GMT -5
Post by Death on Aug 4, 2015 20:36:31 GMT -5
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One two three four wipes of the cloth against the glass' grime and gunk stuck to the inside like limescale I'm de-calcifying. One drag of the damp rag across it, my nose twinging with the vinegar I'm using.
I set the shot glass down with a click against hardwood bar tops gleaming with newly polished resin. I've wiped them down at least three times in the past hour to keep from boredom.
A bar stool creaks and whines against the floor as the black haired woman scoots backwards and hops down from her perch, leaving her paper-lined plastic basket glistening with grease from fried fish in her place.
"Have a nice day," I call out, picking up another glass to polish.
She turns back and smiles at me before pushing on the door. The brass bell jingles like tiny wind chimes caught in the nonexistent breeze.
I glance around the bar. Stonewall, his face scaled with unshaven whiskers instead of lime, sits in his corner, taking puffs on a small pipe between sips from his pint, still frothy with cream bubbles. He practically never leaves the bar, so there might as well have been no one there.
Alyx and I always get the early Tuesday afternoon shifts. Mom and Dad spend the day catching up on sleep they missed out on from Monday Night Madness and the weekend. Brandy goes off and does whatever (or whoever) he wants and who knows what Bailey and Aytac get up to. That leaves Alyx and I to mind the bar, should we possibly, for Ripred knows what reason, get a patron besides Stonewall.
I wipe the shot glass one two three four times again, circling the inner ring at the bottom before setting it back in its stack and hanging my rag from its hook. There's still at least a hundred left to do.
Turning back towards the basket and the seat the black haired girl once occupied, I walk over, pick it up and start walking towards the kitchen. She'd had such enchanting gray eyes. Like impure diamonds someone had cut anyways.
Doors swing on ancient hinges as I push through to the next room. Tossing the wax paper liner into the trash and quickly wiping out the container, I look around for Alyx.
Nothing but blank tile walls greet my glance.
The fryer, having been turned on to cook the fish, still has its red power light burning by its knobs and buttons. I walk forward and flick the on/off switch, watching as the LED blinks off.
"I wonder who forgot to turn off the fryer..." I mutter. "Couldn't have been anyone I know."
My stomach gurgles and I glance at the clock ticking quietly on the back wall by the door to the alley. 2:15. Nobody would be getting off work for another three hours. Another three hours of boredom and getting more pints for Stonewall.
Two doors.
Six tiles to the rear and front doors.
Twenty tiles from the floor to the ceiling.
Fourty-six tiles long by thirty-one titles wide.
Three sinks.two dripping faucets
Four ovens.
Two fryers.
Seven dish rags.
Five bottles of cleaner.
One Alyx carrying in a crate of glass bottles, Tottering Tankard, Est. 3 Generations Ago, burned black into the outside of the splintery wood. Twelve bottles each with one liter of whiskey, each ninety-proof, sloshing and clinking against the tops of each other.
One-half of a smile from me as I take her in. Always desirable. For once, potentially easily attainable.
False.
Never easily attained.
Easily bought.
One-half smile plus one half-smile equals one full smile and I make eye contact.
"Alyx, want some help?"
I set the shot glass down with a click against hardwood bar tops gleaming with newly polished resin. I've wiped them down at least three times in the past hour to keep from boredom.
A bar stool creaks and whines against the floor as the black haired woman scoots backwards and hops down from her perch, leaving her paper-lined plastic basket glistening with grease from fried fish in her place.
"Have a nice day," I call out, picking up another glass to polish.
She turns back and smiles at me before pushing on the door. The brass bell jingles like tiny wind chimes caught in the nonexistent breeze.
I glance around the bar. Stonewall, his face scaled with unshaven whiskers instead of lime, sits in his corner, taking puffs on a small pipe between sips from his pint, still frothy with cream bubbles. He practically never leaves the bar, so there might as well have been no one there.
Alyx and I always get the early Tuesday afternoon shifts. Mom and Dad spend the day catching up on sleep they missed out on from Monday Night Madness and the weekend. Brandy goes off and does whatever (or whoever) he wants and who knows what Bailey and Aytac get up to. That leaves Alyx and I to mind the bar, should we possibly, for Ripred knows what reason, get a patron besides Stonewall.
I wipe the shot glass one two three four times again, circling the inner ring at the bottom before setting it back in its stack and hanging my rag from its hook. There's still at least a hundred left to do.
Turning back towards the basket and the seat the black haired girl once occupied, I walk over, pick it up and start walking towards the kitchen. She'd had such enchanting gray eyes. Like impure diamonds someone had cut anyways.
Doors swing on ancient hinges as I push through to the next room. Tossing the wax paper liner into the trash and quickly wiping out the container, I look around for Alyx.
Nothing but blank tile walls greet my glance.
The fryer, having been turned on to cook the fish, still has its red power light burning by its knobs and buttons. I walk forward and flick the on/off switch, watching as the LED blinks off.
"I wonder who forgot to turn off the fryer..." I mutter. "Couldn't have been anyone I know."
My stomach gurgles and I glance at the clock ticking quietly on the back wall by the door to the alley. 2:15. Nobody would be getting off work for another three hours. Another three hours of boredom and getting more pints for Stonewall.
Two doors.
Six tiles to the rear and front doors.
Twenty tiles from the floor to the ceiling.
Fourty-six tiles long by thirty-one titles wide.
Three sinks.
Four ovens.
Two fryers.
Seven dish rags.
Five bottles of cleaner.
One Alyx carrying in a crate of glass bottles, Tottering Tankard, Est. 3 Generations Ago, burned black into the outside of the splintery wood. Twelve bottles each with one liter of whiskey, each ninety-proof, sloshing and clinking against the tops of each other.
One-half of a smile from me as I take her in. Always desirable. For once, potentially easily attainable.
False.
Never easily attained.
Easily bought.
One-half smile plus one half-smile equals one full smile and I make eye contact.
"Alyx, want some help?"
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