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“Survival isn’t graceful,” I confide, allowing a rare glimpse into the fortress I’ve built around myself. “It’s necessity.” My past ripples beneath the surface, a constant reminder of why I fight so hard to remain standing.
“Speaking of survival,” Mandy says, her tone shifting back to her usual lighthearted lilt, “table six is giving me the eye. Duty calls.” She winks and slips away, leaving me to fend off another round of advances.
The night drags on, each moment stretching out. Laughter erupts sporadically, the sound brittle and strained, as if everyone’s aware that a single wrong move could shatter the fragile peace. But amid the tumult, there’s Mandy’s occasional touch on my arm, a whispered joke shared between us, a lifeline thrown in a stormy sea.
The clinking of glasses and the low hum of conversations create a constant hum in the Tin Cup. In the midst of it all, I move with a rhythm that’s mine alone. The bar becomes my stage; each motion is part of a performance that keeps the patrons sated and at bay. With a deft flick of my wrist, I send a bottle spiraling into the air, a show of glass and liquid grace. “Jane expertly flips the bottle,” someone murmurs in awe, their voice tinged with respect.
“Watch her go,” Ricky Caldwell drawls from his perch at the end of the bar, his sandy hair catching the dim light as he leans back, eyeing me like a prize to be won. His smirk is a challenge I’ve learned to ignore.
“Ever seen anything so pretty?” Snake chimes in, his tattoos twisting with the movement of his arms as he mimics applause. “A real showstopper.”
I catch the bottle without missing a beat, pouring a perfect shot into the waiting glass. My movements are swift, precise, betraying none of the irritation that simmers beneath my skin.
“Just doing my job,” I say, sliding the drink toward an eager hand, my tone as smooth as the whiskey I serve.
“Come on, Jane,” Ricky presses, his voice slithering over the name like he’s got some claim to it. “Give us a smile, will ya?”
I don’t. Instead, I pull another beer from the cooler; the frosted bottle cool against my palm.
“Smiles aren’t on the menu,” I quip, popping the cap with a practiced flick.
“Too bad,” Snake retorts, winking. “I’d pay good money for one of yours.”
“Keep your money,” I counter. “You’ll need it for your tab.”
Laughter erupts from the other side of the bar, raucous and unrestrained, as if mocking the tightrope I walk every night. But I stay focused to keep from rising to the bait. They won’t see me falter, not tonight. Not ever.
“Damn girl, you’re cold,” Ricky says, feigning hurt.
He knows it’s a game we play, this dance of defiance. He pushes, I parry, and the world spins on.
“Only when I have to be,” I shoot back, keeping my voice even, my posture relaxed yet ready for anything he throws at me. It’s a delicate balance, maintaining my composure while the vultures circle, but it’s one I’ve mastered out of necessity.
“Nice one, Jane,” a regular mutters, tipping his hat to me with genuine admiration. “You’ve got the patience of a saint.”
“Or the devil,” I mutter under my breath, wiping down the bar and setting things straight.
Saints don’t last long in places like this, sinners, however, thrive.
I fill another round of orders. And as the hours wear on, I can feel the weight of responsibility settling on my shoulders, the unspoken duty to maintain order in this tiny microcosm of chaos.
The air hangs thick with the scent of tobacco and grease, a cloud that clings to my skin. I’ve grown accustomed to the weight of it, like armor.
“Hey, Jane, why don’t you come over here and give us a private show?” Ricky’s voice slithers through the din, coated in cheap liquor and cheaper intentions.
My hands steady on the glass I’m polishing, fingers gripping just tight enough to remind myself they’re my own. “Sorry, boys,” I say, tone light but edges sharp as broken glass. “Not in this lifetime.”
“Your loss, sweetheart,” Snake adds, his smirk audible even if I don’t deign to look his way.
“Is it?” I counter, placing the gleaming glass onto the shelf above me and allowing myself a small inward smile.
They think they can rattle me, but I’m not easily bothered by the likes of them.
“Jane, ignore them,” Mandy advises, her touch gentle on my forearm, her eyes brimming with camaraderie. “They’re just trying to get a rise out of you.”
“Thanks, Mands,” I reply, grateful for her presence. “But I’m good.”
And I mean it. Their words, their leers, they’re nothing but noise, a test of my mettle, one I refuse to fail.
