'' Mrs. Black and White on the far stool by the bar was nervously hitting the counter as she swallowed down her drink at the same time reaching for the bottle of vodka next to her to pour some more. That's what she's been doing all night long. The bartender sighed and slid across the bar to get to her. She wasn't a regular customer, and she didn't look like she could handle all of what she had gulped down. Time to intervene.
"Keys," he commanded, and opened his palm in front of her. Her glassy, swollen eyes looked up at him as if he just spoke Greek to her. The hell with the idiots in here! The bartender thought tiredly and rubbed his eyes. "I can't let you drive tonight. You're drunk. Give me your keys, get a cab and come tomorrow to get them back. They'll be here." Like anyone would care to steal the keys of a half-a-century-old truck like yours. He had seen it when she walked in. Ancient thing. Hell, how could the old wreck still roll its wheels?! It caught most of the space in the pavement in front of the bar and almost closed the entrance. This woman wasn't from town. It was obvious from the way she had parked. The bartender rolled his eyes at the thought of what a danger this woman posed if she drove home tonight. Drunk and does not know parallel parking. Guaranteed car crash. I’m probably saving at least one life tonight.
She sloppily threw her hand in her bag, looking for the keys. She pulled out a huge key ring with more than twenty keys and recklessly threw it to him. "Get the one for the car. I want the rest back," she said in a shaky voice. She placed the bag on the bar and buried her face in her hands.
She had an awful day. First, her baby boy ended up in the hospital, and the doctors diagnosed him with that damn cancer... His treatment wasn't working. Then, her husband decided to release all his frustration and anger on her... She ached in parts she never knew she could. The drink was easing the pain somewhat, she felt all numb and fuzzy, but she was determined to go nowhere near him again. How would she do it though? She had to get her son. He was in the hospital and he needed his mother now more than ever. Their paths would cross ultimately. She sobbed even harder in frustration.
Her life had always been easy. Simple. She was a small town girl. She grew up, fell in love with the boy next door, and they got married. Things were either black or white. She got married. White. She got pregnant. White. She gave birth to a beautiful baby boy. White as well. Her mother died. Black. All of a sudden, her life started turning gray. She’d never seen gray before, and everything was turning a deeper and deeper, and ever darkening shade of gray. Her son was ill. His childish body couldn’t handle the cancer that was eating away at his tiny body, or the treatment that was not only killing the cancer, but his immune system as well. Her husband had started to hit her. She didn't know what she wanted from her life anymore.
She was a sensitive woman. She always looked for someone like that. She knew she wouldn't find it in her little town, so she decided to settle with second best. Or third best. Or... well... not even something close to best, and she was even losing this. Her misery had no limits.
"Can I have my bill?" Mr. Multicultural asked and leaned against the bar while Mrs. Black and White cried her eyes out next to him. The bartender was still struggling to find the car's key, and jingled the key ring angrily.
To hell with the damn keys! he thought in frustration. He highly doubted that either Mr. Multicultural or Mrs. Black and White would give him a good tip after all.
Mr. Multicultural was a thin man, somewhere in his forties, but he didn't really look like it. He had a baby face and a sweet appearance. Straight nose, beautiful blonde locks, piercing blue eyes. A never-aging teenager. He pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose, stabilizing them once again. He had stayed up way longer than he had since he got out of college. He had a fat, overstuffed architecture book in one hand and a checked notepad filled with a sloppy, scratchy script of numbers and calculations for his boss. Yes, someone with interests as wide and deep as his, involved in everything from art and music to movies and books, ended up being a financial counselor, trying to cover up his boss's dirty business. He should be ashamed of himself. He always regretted taking the job in the first place, but when he got involved, he was just a kid fresh out of college with hopes and dreams as big as the universe. He didn't know. He looked for a job, and he got one. They paid well, and he was happy until he realized what this was about and then it was too late.
"Sure," the bartender said. With the jingling key ring in one hand, he walked over to the cash register to print out Mr. Multicultural's receipt.
"Are you alright?" Mr. Multicultural asked Mrs. Black and White. He couldn't stand seeing a beautiful woman like her crying. He searched his jacket's pocket for a tissue and decided to give her the whole package. Her delicate fingers reached out to take the tissues, and she brought one to her face, wiping her tears.
"No. My life's a mess. But it's okay, there's a bunch of people whose lives are filled with shit, so no big deal, right?"
She sounded drunk; Mr. Multicultural looked sideways at the almost empty vodka bottle next to where her elbow rested. He hoped the bottle was already half empty when she started drinking. His look softened, and he placed his architecture book next to Mrs. Black and White's bag, taking a seat on the stool next to her.
"It is a big deal. Would you like to talk about it?" He talked to her confidently, as if he'd known her for a while now. He didn't know if it was the sympathy he felt for her, or something more that made him behave like this.
She nodded, or so it seemed. She didn't talk. A few seconds passed, and the only sound that was heard was the song playing from the speakers. Without a word, she sucked in a deep breath and gingerly took off her coat, exposing her bare shoulder. Mr. Multicultural gasped as he saw the angry red-purple bruise on her. He wanted to look away, but at the same time, he couldn’t do anything but stare.
"How did it happen?" he asked. He wanted to reach out and touch her, hold her hand, stroke her hair, do anything that could make her feel better, but he knew better. She was a woman he had just met at a bar, and she was crying. He didn't want to send the wrong signals to her.
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