FirstLineFiction beta

from Contest #7

She's a local. In this town, that means people let “the poor girl” be. Eric doesn't know that. Back from the restroom, he slides onto the cracked-leather-coated stool next to her and fists his half-empty beer mug again. Smiling inwardly, he takes in her short black hair, torn cuticles, and innocent-looking profile. However, she remains busy with her drink - a Vodka Tonic that she slurps like a child does soda. The feeling of eyes alert him, and with a glance around he knows the other locals are watching. “Guard dogs,” he thinks to himself. A couple chugs of beer later give him the strength to ignore all farm-hardened men and their rock-like knuckles.

Prepared for pleasantries, and hopefully more, he extends his hand, but she stops him from any further introduction. “Stuart Livingston?” she says softly.

He knows who she means. The motel clerk whispered to one of the maids about it without seeing him, but he hadn't really heard much. The town paper, included with the price of his room, is still speckled with his name even after months. Stuart, some guy about their age, apparently lived briefly over on Michigan Street. Solemnly, he shakes his head and faces the grainy counter. “No. Wrong person. Sorry.”

Once ready to flirt, he feels his ambitions fizzle away. Any and every charming word in his vocabulary falls from his head and floats, invisible, with the sudsy beer foam in his mug.

Her voice is all laughter: “Stuart, don't be stupid. Where have you been?!” She says this too loud, with a girlish squeak that makes Eric feel guilty for not being this Stuart. Everyone in the bar is listening, but the low murmur of a Friday at O'Leary's persists beneath the sound of her moving her stool closer to him.

Eric dares to glance at her face with his lips drawn tight over his teeth. Her face is bright and red with booze and an inconceivable joy that he must dash.

“Where have you been?” she asks again. Her grin is toothy and large, but he turns away.

“I'm not Stuart, okay?” he says in a low, firm voice.

“Stop it,” she says in a similar tone, pressing her breasts against his arm. “You take this long to meet me, and you want to play games?” She almost snarls at him. Startled by her sudden change in mood, he feels more than thankful for her turning back to her almost empty glass.

A deep breath relaxes his tense lungs. He knows he needs to leave. Just how many seconds it will take for her to be distracted enough for him to creep away unnoticed? Unnoticed by her, at least, for he knows enough to understand that every partaker of this weekend ritual at O' Leary's has at least one ear turned towards them. He thinks that once he has safely removed himself from the bar, every drinker present will sigh as one. As he waits, smoke curls lazily in front of the sheltered lights above each table, and the television sizzles with static from the corner above the bartender. So many mild distractions, but all he needs is one to catch her eye.

“You know,” she hisses suddenly. “You're lousy at this relationship thing aren't you?” Twisted in disgust, her expression pins him back to his stool.

“Listen,” he says, near begging, “I'm not Stuart. If you'd just listen to me for one second-”

“I'm tired of listening to you! I can't believe the stuff you put me through. Waiting and waiting and waiting.” Shaking her head, she faces the counter once more and swears into her Vodka. He's about to look away when her girlish chin dimples. His chest squeezes in unwelcomed concern. “You have a lot of nerve, Stuart. Leaving me there like that.”

Coating his bottom lip in a sheet of spit, Eric weighs his options briefly. “I'm sorry about that,” he whispers.

“Sure.”

“No, I am. There's nothing jerkier than mistreating a lady, is there?”

The quirk of her lips surges him with hope. He finds himself smiling. Those in the bar, pretending not to watch, ease their grip on their mugs and laugh more heartily.

“You're right.” She grins up at him with watery eyes. “It's okay. I forgive you, I guess.”

With a satisfied nod, Eric figures this moment is prime for his escape. He is only about ten strides from the door and the soggy street outside. Only four blocks away from his neon light of the motel.

The moment Eric's feet hit the floor, he fastens his eyes to the exit sign and starts his escape. Not even two steps later, he's caught. Her small hands encircle his arm.

“Where are you going now, Stuart?”

“I'm just. . . nowhere. I'm not going anywhere.” With a sigh, he rubs the bridge of his nose.

Her voice is soft like mallow now. “If you want to leave, we can go together.” Without waiting for an answer, she clutches her purse and throws back the drains of vodka. “Home awaits,” she says with a gleeful grin.

“Right.” Unsure, he takes her hand in his, and starts for the door once more.

She finds his palm familiarly damp, despite the fingerprints not being so. “You always were nervous around us pretty girls, weren't you?”

For a second, his knees almost give out beneath him. “R-right.” Holding one side of his face, he wonders at this sudden sick feeling swarming through his head.

The door swings shut behind them, enveloping the drinkers in silence that lasts only the length of one breath. Talk continues. Drinks are poured and spilled. Will-be regulars, just old enough to drink, wipe foam from their lips and jut their thumbs towards the door. What they whisper just then is all that's mentioned of her. She's a local, and in this town, that means something.

 

 

 

 

 

back to Contest #7