13. Esperr
ESPERR
By the time I’m ten minutes into my shift at the bar, I already knew I shouldn’t have come in.
Not because anything is wrong, and that’s probably the most frustrating part.
The bar is calm while the music stays low, just enough to fill the space without demanding attention.
The early crowd has drifted in slow, familiar faces taking their usual seats, all ordering the same drinks like they always do.
I move behind the bar on autopilot, pouring, wiping, sliding glasses across the counter with ease that comes from doing exactly this too many times to count. I’m good at this—I always have been.
But tonight, every sound feels like a tap to my spine.
Every voice seems to make me want to stab their eyeballs out.
Someone laughs at the far end of the bar and the sound crawls up my spine instead of rolling past me like it normally does.
I force myself not to react to keep my face neutral as I hand over a drink and turn away before the guy can start a conversation I don’t have patience for.
Jason moves beside me, close enough that I catch the faint scent of soap and citrus when he passes.
He grabs a glass I’d already been reaching for, fills it, and then slides it across the bar without commenting.
The interaction is innocent, something he does all the time, but for a brief moment, a seamless, irrational spike of irritation crawls up my spine before I can swallow it down.
I don’t usually need help, and if I did, it wouldn’t be this early.
I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter, that I’m just probably about to start my period, and that I’m hyperaware of every little thing.
So, I wipe the counter harder than necessary, my grip tightening on the rag until my knuckles ache. And when I look at the clock behind the bar, what feels like minutes turns out to be seconds.
There is plenty of time left at work, and the realization settles uncomfortably in my chest. I straighten the stack of napkins near the register even though they’re already neat and then adjust them again when the middle one’s corner isn’t perfectly aligned.
My jaw tightens, and I make myself unclench it.
A man at the bar leans forward, waving his empty glass slightly when I don’t look at him fast enough. The movement catches my peripheral vision, and irritation flares hot and immediate. I should shove that glass cup up his ass and stab him in the eye.
But that would be highly frowned upon, especially in a normal world like this one.
I reach him before he can open his mouth and set down his refill with a practiced, measured calmness that takes more effort than it should.
He grins like he’s pleased with himself, and I have to fight the urge to break the glass and stab him.
Instead, I nod once and turn away, my pulse ticking faster than it needs to.
Everyone is getting on my nerves.
And it’s not because they’re doing anything different; they’re all their same annoying self.
I shift my weight and roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the tightness creeping in under my skin. This should be nothing; I’ve handled worse nights than this—louder crowds, drunker customers, situations that actually deserved the edge creeping into my thoughts.
But I still catch myself scanning the room more often than necessary, tracking every single movement, noting proximity, and being aware of every body that steps close to the counter.
The bar door opens and closes, letting in a brief rush of cold air, and I find myself watching it longer than I should before forcing my attention back to the counter and the sticky splotch on it.
I don’t know how long I scrub at the counter for; one minute I’m there bored out of my mind, and then the next the stools fill and the space tightens, bodies pressing closer.
Their voices stack over one another until the sound loses its edge and the orders start overlapping.
Someone laughs too loudly, while another leans across the counter like personal space is a suggestion.
I move through the motion, not stopping to chat or look up unless I have to. The smell of beer grows heavier, mixing with sweat and too much perfume that makes me nauseated.
Jason is everywhere and all at once, reaching past me, behind me, and even in front of me. At some point he takes over the register, and I let out a sigh of relief that I don’t have to really talk to anyone.
“Hey!” a voice cuts through the noise. “I’ve been waiting.”
I raise a brow, moving over to him, before setting his drink down sloppily, making sure that some of his beer has spilled over the side. He mutters something, probably cursing at me, but I’m already moving away.
The floors begin to feel tackier now, the soles of my converse pulling slightly with each step while my lower back begins to ache.
“It’s about time this place filled up,” a familiar voice cuts through. My hands stills while the bottle is tilted just enough that liquid sloshes against the glass, threatening to spill. I right it automatically, setting it down before I make a bigger mess.
Dean stands at the bar like he owns the space, elbows spread, and grin already in place, eyes scanning until they land directly on me. He looks pleased, like this is exactly where he wants to be, and that feels like acid sliding down my throat.
My chest tightens hard enough that my breath stutters, and for a second everything goes very quiet.
Heat flashes, sharp and disorienting, crawling up my neck and down my spine while my hands feel too far away from the rest of me, fingers growing stiff as I curl them around the edges of the counter to steady myself.
“Hey, Esp.”
My eyes darken, and not in a good way. More like I’m two seconds away from committing an actual felony.
“Don’t call me that,” I tell him, leaving no room in my voice for argument.
“My apologies,” he says, throwing his hands up. “Miller Lite.”
I don’t accept it, but I do reach under into the fridge and grab the bottle. Using the bottle opener, I cracked the cap off and tossed it into the trash before taking the ten from him.
“Still quiet,” he mutters, taking the beer from my hand. I grit my teeth when his fingers brush against mine. “Guess people don’t know a good time when they see one.”
I roll my eyes, not bothering to say anything and turn away from him. Dean laughs at that, a short bark of sound, and then backs up, wandering off toward a cluster of people near the back.
Jason starts stacking glasses on the drying mat, his movement slower now that the crowd has fizzled out to our normal amount.
I check the clock again—thirty minutes left. Blowing out a breath, I start wiping down the counter again, cleaning up the spilled beer and other liquid.
I’m busy cleaning up behind the bar when Dean’s laugh reaches my ears. Out of habit I look up, just in time to see him bump into a stool, barely catching himself. As he glances up, I quickly look down, hoping that would be his last beer.
That hope dies the moment I hear an empty bottle hit the counter.
“Another,” he slid the glass bottle towards me.
“You sure?”
He grins, completely unfazed by my tone. “Aw, come on now, don’t get all responsible on me now.”
Something tightens behind my eyes, but I grab him another beer anyway. My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it, and I slide the drink across to him.
Just as I turn away from him, he’s opening his mouth. “What’s going on? You’re awfully quiet this evening. It’s not me…is it?” he chuckles, doing a poor job at pouting.
The words crawl under my skin.
I straighten, finally meeting his eyes. “Dean, it’s not going to happen. Drink your beer…”
The edge in my voice makes him laugh instead of backing off until he realizes I’m not joking.
“Relax, I’m just talking.”
I step away without answering, busying myself with wiping down a section that doesn't need it. My hands feel unsteady while my pulse ticks hard in my throat, so much so that I press my palms against the counter, waiting for it to subside.
Behind me, Dean laughs again, louder this time, and I can hear one of his friends tell him to sit down. Of course he doesn’t.
Dean is a mess, and every time he opens his mouth, the irritation in my chest sharpens.
I tell myself to just get through the last fifteen minutes, keep my head down, and ignore him until last call.
But as the bar empties, there’s less noise to hide behind, and his sloppiness stops feeling like background static and starts feeling personal.
“LAST CALL!” Jason cups his hands around his mouth, yelling.
Groans ripple through the remaining crowd, followed by a few customers getting up from their chairs and heading to the railing, and thankfully Jason takes care of them.
I’m loading the last bit of beer bottles into the fridge when Dean stumbles out of his chair.
He doesn’t walk in a straight line, his hand dragging along the back of a chair like it’s there to keep him upright.
By the time he reaches me, his eyes are glossy, his grin a little too wide, his movement loose in a way that makes my eye twitch.
“Shot and a beer,” he says, leaning forward, hands landing on the bar with more force than necessary.
The smell hits me first—alcohol, and I know that should make sense as we’re in a bar. But it’s like it’s coming out of his pores. I know I didn’t give him that many beers, four and a shot, but he’s acting like he’s had nearly ten.
I straighten slowly and look at him, taking in the way he’s bracing his weight against the counter and the way his pupils don’t quite track me when I shift.
“No,” I say.
For a second, he just stares at me, blinking like he’s trying to figure out what I said. “What?”
“You’re done for the night,” I tell him, already reaching for a glass and filling it with water, then setting it between his hands. “You can have this.”
His expression tightens, irritation flashing hot and fast across his face. “I didn’t ask for water,” he snaps.
“I know. But I’m not serving you anything else.”