She leans against the bar rubbing the end of a plastic sword against her gums. With the tip of her tongue she feels the remnants of a crudite adhered to a rear molar but resists the urge to pick the aforementioned spot with her sword. Too far back and mouth too open to escape the notice of the lone businessman four seats down ordering a single malt scotch.
She raises her glass. The bartender nods spritzing a chilled glass with absyinthe. She wonders when they started bottling Sazerac, as a Rye, not the cocktail. She undoes the top button of her blouse, revealing the lacy bra that cuts into her underarms, but the cleavage it provides is worth it.
There is nothing special about her features. Broad forehead. Eyesbrows plucked, shaped, but growing out. Just a hint of bags under her eyes. Her smile is faint, almost non-existent. She has been training years for this, the expression of nihility.
Her drink arrives. She takes a sip. She counts 416 seconds between each sip. The idea is to calm the nerves by introducing subtle well-timed amounts of alcohol. Not to have it take effect to quickly.
She watches her fingers trace the lip of the glass. “ 241, 242, 243,244…” and thinks of the illness within her. An illness so deep that it does not reside in muscle or bone. Far fr beyond the prodding of fingers or questions. “356, 357, 358…”
She catches a glimpses herself in the brass edge of the bar. A woman drinking alone in a hotel bar. Desperate or a professional? What marks the difference? Both know more or less how to have a good time. One picks up the check the other always has taxi fare home.
The bar will eventually fill up and she will be surrounded by the buzz of conversation. It is a noise that interrupts, that separates, that isolates. Not one of them will recognize her from the film of which they speak. One or two will acknowledge her, as a fixture, with a glance or a nod of the head. But not one of them has anything she needs.
To rise above the clamor she takes another sip of her cocktail and collapses deep into herself, ”1,2,3,4…”
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