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They have no fucking idea what they’re talking about. I’m one. I can’t stand loud noises and small rooms with lots of people. Yet, I work at Silver Moon—a bar with open mic nights.
Have I mentioned that alcohol and I also have a long and tumultuous relationship? The current career choice is a coincidence that helps me strengthen my self-control every night I work here.
I’m many things. I wear multiple hats and assume multiple personalities. Learned to do so from a young age. Survival instincts and all that. I could write articles like: Ten best places to hide from the public.
Best ways to avoid yourself.
How to skip family reunions.
Become a new version of yourself.
How many jobs does it take to survive?
Natural ways to subsist without medical benefits.
When I decided to move on with my life and become a new person, I didn’t think about the future. Not much thought was given to what would happen after I started college. In fact, I had no idea what to major in during my freshman year. During year four, after picking up a major and minor—English and Psych—I had a glimpse of said future. I wanted to help others.
That epiphany meant continuing my education for another four years.
Did I think about the student loans I requested at that time?
No.
Did I think that becoming a therapist was more than merely finishing a degree? No, but now I’m scrambling to deal with all those bumps, including paying the outrageous interest that my student loans accumulate every month.
Once I reached my freedom and broke the chains, I believed everything was possible. The sky was the limit… until I was limited by everything. Essentially, money. Figuring out how to survive took me some time and therapy.
“T, I’m heading back to the office,” Reed, my boss, calls out while walking away. “Don’t start a brawl.”
I stick out my tongue and turn my attention back to the bar. He thinks he’s funny, and I haven’t burst his bubble. I love the man. When I came to ask about leasing the apartment upstairs, he offered me the job too. It was after he told me the stratospheric amount, and I gave him the extended version of why my life sucked.
Including that I owe my soul to several financial institutions that paid for my education and that, as of now, I haven’t received my counselor license, he not only understood my issue with the rent, but he also provided me with an income.
Bartending is my first job. The second is my online jewelry storeButterfly Creations. My third is a side gig that my good friend Molly Shields provided a couple years ago too—editor. She sends me over stuff to edit. The gig pays well. This is what my generation has to endure: Multiple jobs, low pay, and zero medical benefits.
Being an adult sucks.
Just like Sunday open mic.
When I check the stage, there’s a new band setting up their instruments. Two chicks dressed in black gowns and two dudes with raggedy black T-shirts. I’m curious about what they’re going to play. Some punk rock, Goth tunes… original shit, or another round of poorly performed covers?
I let out a big exhale and start wiping the counter. Everything is stocked, and I don’t have much to do. I’m bored. The tip jar is empty and the clientele thin. Tonight sucks. Only Reed would think that adding a mic night would bring in more patrons.
In fact, I think it scares his regulars. But I’m here because he pays by the hour, and hopefully the tip jar will end up half full by the end of my shift.
“What’s up, my butterfly?” My stomach flutters with that low voice.
Matthew Decker.
There hasn’t been a time that my lips haven’t drawn a smile from the energy of his presence. Mr. Sin-on-a-stick. He drips sex and makes anyone salivate with just his nearness. “Anything sounded good tonight?”
Before giving him my undivided attention, I find my wits, put up my anti-Matt walls, and lift my gaze. That sexy smirk plastered on those gorgeous lips shows one of my favorite parts of him: the dimple.
Everything about this man is perfect, from the tousled light-brown hair, the fitted shirt that covers his long, chiseled torso, to those tattoos on a pair of impossibly strong arms. I like to stare at them and try to decipher what each scribble, symbol, and line means. I can only decipher the meaning of the equal sign, which symbolizes marriage equality.
Deep-blue eyes like the ocean, which make me want to dive into them and swim in them forever, top off the sin-on-a-stick package.
Keep your walls up, Thea.
