“Get me a Dublin Donkey!”
“It’s Moscow Mule you dumbass!”
Lara crouched behind the bar searching for notes on how to live a better life. She was tired of night after night of red-faced, smoked laced patrons. She was tired of having her ass pinched and her tips written out as “meet me in my room”.
She tried side jobs, formal interviews, even a stint as a bartender at a more prestigious joint. It never worked.
Lara was made to sling cheap booze in sticky holes in the wall. She was born to salvage societal trash, even if it was with alcohol.
She dreamed of turning them into something more. She longed to fix the broken things.
A pair of hazel eyes peered over the bar, down Lara’s shirt.
“Hey gorgeous …” Slurred words morphed into exotic sounds, like waves on an island or the calls of southern birds. “The wife left me. Be a doll and make me something strong.”
Those eyes, brimming with tears, brightened when Lara returned his gaze.
Her heart lightened. A new project. Broken but not shattered. Hopeful.
“Meet me in my room.” She scribbled on a stained napkin. “I can fix you up.”
Word Count: 200
For Sunday Photo Fiction
Photo Credit: Morguefile