Sick of Losing Soulmates | Steve Rogers

[02] night life

As the night dwindles down and the customers start trickling out (more like stumbling in most cases), Ceres starts spraying down the wooden counter and wiping away condensation rings from sweating bottles and rogue puddles of alcohol that had been spilled. Only a few more people remain in the bar. There's a couple against the far wall who seems to be arguing about who loves the other more. Bill, one of their regulars, sips from his drink in his usual booth near the windows.

One last customer sits at the counter. He slowly nurses a glass of scotch, taking his time with downing the amber liquid. It seems like he's more interested in swirling it around instead of actually ingesting it; he appears to be lost in thought as he props one elbow on the wood.

Ceres tosses the damp rag over her shoulder and approaches him. "We close in fifteen minutes."

The man doesn't look up. She stops in front of where he sits, wondering if he's that spaced out where he didn't hear her. Maybe he's drunk? "Sir?"

The man looks up. Most of the people who come here are either regulars or semi-regulars, but Ceres is certain she hasn't seen this guy here before. He has black hair that sticks up in all directions. It makes him look younger than he probably is, which might be from his mid-thirties to early forties. Unlike most of the people she's seen tonight, his crystal-blue eyes are clear and sharp when they meet gazes.

He reaches up to his left ear. It's then when she realizes that he's turning on a hearing aid. Her cheeks flush with embarrassment, heat consuming her entire body and making her want to crawl into a hole and die. "Oh my God. I'm so sorry— I didn't realize—"

"It's all right," the man says with a charming smile. "I get it a lot. What did you say?"

"We close in fifteen minutes."

"Oh." He checks the time on his phone, eyes widening. "Holy shit. It's this late already? Sorry— I'm new around here. Got rejected from a job interview today, and I guess I lost track of time. And how many drinks I've had."

Ceres gives a small laugh at the half-joke. Then, she turns serious. "I'm sorry to hear about that. Job market's been tough."

He makes a face. "You have no idea."

She allows him to take a few more sips of his scotch as she continues cleaning up. Her coworker had called in, so it's just been her tonight, and things are a little messier than normal since she hadn't had much time to tidy up between tasks.

Bill-the-regular takes one last sip of his beer, tipping the bottle back as far as he can to get every last drop. Ceres knows that's his signal and prints out his receipt, placing it on the counter with a tap of her nail. "Here's your tab, Bill."

"Wouldda been funnier if you said, 'Here's your bill, Bill,'" the mystery man says with a chuckle to himself. "Do you know all of your customers' names?"

"Mostly the ones who are here a lot," Ceres replies. She waits for Bill to pay and stuffs the money in the register, then accepts his tip with a smile. "Have a great night, and be careful out there. See you Wednesday."

Bill gives her a nod and leaves. Now it's just her, the guy, and the drunk couple who now looks close to passing out at their table. She'll probably have to shoo them out or get their bouncer to do it— wherever he is.

"So, what's your name?" she asks the scotch guy.

"Is that your way of asking if I'm gonna come here often?"

"It's being polite," she counters with a shrug. "I heard it gets you a long way in service jobs. Well, sometimes. Other times, people just throw their drink at you."