The ice tasted like blood – a sharp, coppery flavor that made her tongue twitch in discomfort. She shuddered slightly, but closed her mouth around it and set the glass back down.

"That's not good for your teeth," the man on the other side of the counter muttered. She looked up at him with an air that he'd disturbed her in a moment of great contemplation, and looked back down at her reflection in the highly polished wood. She could sense the bartender still looking at her, and pressed the corner of the ice cube hard against the roof of her mouth.

"Are you waiting for someone?" She wondered if this bartender was talkative in general, or it was just her. She swallowed what was left of the cold water and rotated her glass.

"Why aren't you offering me a refill?" she asked quietly, her eyes lifting to the colorful bottles of vodka and brandy just over his shoulder. Something like discomfort flickered in his stare, and he took the glass out of her hands.

When returned, it was filled with some kind of peach-colored mix she was unfamiliar with. "This isn't what I ordered," she muttered.

"It's what you wanted," he replied.

"Do I want to pay for it?"

"It's on the house."

She finally met his eyes for a moment, and took a sip. The alcohol immediately loosened her thoughts, and she felt as though the bar had slid off into a rocky ocean.

"You didn't answer my question," she heard him say. She gripped the glass as though to hold herself steady.

"Yes, I'm waiting for someone." She was waiting, but he wouldn't show up that night.

"You've been here for quite a while," the man said slowly, his words creeping up her arm like spiders. "Are you sure he's coming?"

"Yes." She tried to say it with a tone of finality, but knew she'd failed. Her uncertainty reeked like the alcohol. Michelle pushed away the glass. "Thank you."

She could feel him as she walked away, his eyes piercing her like the cold uncertainty.


End

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