It was only a few blocks from my apartment to the dive, somehow overlooked by most of my college classmates. It was my favorite spot to nurse a beer after a hard exam or a long day of classes, getting my ass handed to me at pool or screaming my frustrations into the karaoke mic. But hey, I would graduate the next day. It was my last night to flirt with the bartender with the curly hair, or let one of the regulars buy me a drink in exchange for a few minutes of conversation and an unobstructed view of my cleavage. I'm a beer girl myself, but I never turn down the tequila they seem to favor.
It was nice out, so they kept the door propped. The walk was beautiful, my skirt swishing around my thighs. The floor, always slightly sticky, made a little sucking sound with every step. The bartender pulled my usual as I sat down, nodding my appreciation. The room was poorly lit, like it always was. I sipped my beer with my eyes on the hockey game on across the bar as Jack, one of the regulars, sat on the stool next to me.
"And how're you tonight, miss Stella?" he asked, just like he did about once a week.
"Better'n normal, this is my last night in this shithole," I chuckled into my beer, "I graduate and move out tomorrow. Off to a brave new world."
"I heard that buzzin around, congratulations miss Stella." He clapped me on the back hard enough to shove my chest into the bar top. He never did know his own strength. "Next couple of rounds are on me."
"Hey, thanks man. You don't have to," I always said that. He always bought me my next beer. "How bout a game?"
I slid off the bar stool, not noticing that the room was a bit darker than it was when I'd entered, that the door had been shut, that it was only the regulars that night, and only the men. In one big swig I finished what was left of my beer, waving at the bartender from the pool table. I racked up the balls as he pulled my next pint.
Jack followed me after a moment, picking up his usual pool cue from the rack on the wall. None of us were serious players, but we played a lot.
"For the beer, I'll give you the break," I teased, pointing my cue in his direction.
"Don't you worry miss Stella, I'll hand you your ass," he said just before the crack. He rolled up the sleeves of his construction orange shirt with hands still dirty from the day's work. His long, wild beard held a mustache of beer foam, which never seemed to bother him.
After a few successful shots and about a third of my second pint, it was finally my turn. He stayed on the other side of the table as I lined up my shot, his eyes on my chest. Hey, free beer.
Apparently this was more interesting than hockey, because every other regular had his eyes on the pool table. Not that I noticed. After completely biffing my first shot, I decided it was time to finish that second drink. "Next one on you or on me?"
Jack waved at Brett, the bartender, who poured me a third pint. I never feel it before three.
Jack took two more shots before completely missing. I snorted into my glass.
"Big talk coming from you, miss Stella. Take your shot,"
I set my glass down on a tall table and stepped up to take my shot. I knew I shouldn't have worn that skirt if I wanted to play pool; it was just short enough that in any other crowd I would have been nervous. But this was just Jack and the boys. I'd been drinking around them for years, with my fake before I turned 21. They'd seen me grow up, and some of them had almost carried me home. It may have been dark and sticky and sometimes loud, but I had friends at the dive.
I sunk my shot in a way that would've made my father proud. The next one, not so much. It went in, but barely. The third shot went way wide. "Keep it to yourself, J, I don't want to hear it," I say, aiming my cue at his chest.
He put his hands up in a gesture of surrender, a grin under his beer foam mustache. I could smell his sweat from across the table.
"I'm not saying nothin, miss Stella."
In the time it took me to finish my third drink, he'd cleared the table.
