Round One: Fight
by: Anika Taiwade
The bar was pretty loud, but I accepted that over my own place. Too many voices, all directed towards me. I didn’t need all that attention. The bar, on the other hand- it was full, sure enough, but it was a sweet environment, where people speak just above the volume of the music and where laughter blends in with the clink of glasses.
I wasn’t supposed to be here. Not legally, at least. But no one really notices when someone new walks in. I told myself I’d just walk past, maybe get some air. But the lights inside looked warmer than the ones in my room, so I stayed.
I took a seat in front of the bartender’s table. He glanced up. Didn’t say anything verbally, but he gave me that not understanding when people aren’tjudging you, rather just watching.
“First time here?” He laughed, pointing to the pile of the drinks spilled on the seat next to me.
“Is it that obvious?” I muttered.
He chuckled softly, “You sat next to the spill zone.” I looked to my left. I faint wet ring from someone’s forgotten glass marked the counter, and a little bit was dripping down my knee. He handed me a napkin.
After a second or two, he asked, “What’ll it be?” I hesitated. I didn’t come here to drink.
“Something strong.” He raised a brow but didn’t question it. Just turned aroun and started mixing something, fast but sure. When he slid the glass towards me, it was bright- something with citrus, I think. I took a sip. It didn’t sting my throat though, like I expected it too. Instead, it soothed my tongue and left a sweet after-taste.
“That’s actually quite good,” I sighed, shifting in my seat a little bit to sit upright. “No alcohol?”
He laughed a little louder than the first time, “Should I even ask for your card?”
“Fair enough.” He moved down the bar to take another order, but every once in a while, he glanced my way. It’s like he was checking that I was still there. Like he saw something I didn’t know I was showing. The noise around me started to blur into the background, and my eyes started to close on their own.
He came to refill my glass, unasked, and said, “This one’s on me.” I wasn’t sure how to say thank you properly, so I just asked him his name.
“Jack,” he replied.
I nodded slowly. “Ren.”
He smiled. “Nice to meet you, Ren.”
I didn’t plan on staying long, but our conversation just kept flowing. I stayed until the lights dimmed and the crowd thined. Jack never asked me why I was tired, why I looked like I needed a strong, alcoholic drink, or why I was here. I, too, didn’t ask him why he paid for my drink, why was treating me so nicely, nor why he was a seventeen-year-old kid making and serving drinks to college kids who don’t need to go to a bar to get drunk.
For the first time in a while, I didn’t feel like leaving first.
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