[Come Round Soon—Sara Bareilles; 003. Anagnorisis]
On the rare occasions when the door was opened, the chime would erupt into a frantic explosion of various ringing noises. The very thought of an entering customer was almost too much for the old chime to handle; pretty soon, it would simply malfunction under the pressure of introducing a prospective patron, most of whom would only immediately turn back around to leave.
The girl who had entered the bar clutched a cigarette in one hand and a tube of crimson lipstick in the other. She had obviously tried to apply some last-minute touch-ups, either in the car or while walking down the street, and the result was a messy assortment of red streaks going off of her lips and onto her cheek and jaw.
With the door open, the howling wind from the street battled with the stagnant atmosphere inside. By the looks of her, the girl had either been going for the ‘rebellious and chaotic’ style or had been the unfortunate victim of the raging weather. She staggered in, tossed her umbrella beside the door, and looked back out the window with apparent disdain.
A pot-bellied man, who had previously been wiping down the already-impeccable countertop, flashed her a grin.
“A bit nasty out there, eh?”
The girl’s black boots glinted in the fluorescent lights as she squeaked her way over to a stool at the bar and collapsed. She tossed the tube of lipstick into her purse without bothering to close it. “You could say that.”
The man chuckled and put up his rag, turning his back to the customer as he grabbed a tall glass from the back shelf. “The usual?” he asked casually, not waiting for her answer before filling up the glass with ice and a pink liquid that swirled around the glass like a rosy hurricane. Topping it off with a cherry, he regarded it smugly. Even though being a bartender at this sorry establishment had taught him very little about the outside world, having Dinah Palatino as a customer had educated him in the fine practice of making the perfect Shirley Temple. And even though he didn’t need to ask her if she wanted her usual, it made him feel successful. An accomplishment, he told himself, to even have one customer who came by regularly enough to have a usual.
He slid the glass across the counter and watched in amusement as she took her first sip. For a minute or so she alternated between a drag on the cigarette and a gulp of the Shirley Temple. There was no use trying to make conversation with her then, the bartender knew; that would have to wait. He was content to simply watch as she enjoyed her drink and try to comprehend why she’d want a cherry soft drink when she could have some ice-cold beer.
When she had drained the cup and grown tired of smoking, he offered her an ashtray. There was an impressive clap of thunder outside, and he watched as she groaned.
“Having a bad day?” he asked sympathetically, taking out his rag again and obsessively polishing the countertop to a shine. The circular motion seemed to transfix Dinah for a moment, but watching him clean obviously didn’t have the same appeal as having a conversation.
“You could say that, too,” she responded, and then a moment later: “But then again, you could say that about every day of my sorrowful existence in this wretched world.”
“God, Dinah, no need for the theatrics.”
“What, you’re not interested in listening to my woes?”
“Not really, no.”
She glanced up, amused, and ran her finger along the rim of the empty glass. “Tell me about your woes, then. I’ll listen sympathetically. Really, I need the distraction.”
The bartender considered this for a moment, but then decided that his woes were significantly less important than those of this disaster of a girl seated in front of him. Although it was something he didn’t understand, her distaste for alcohol could be a good thing. It gave a trouble-magnet one less troublesome complication to worry about.
“My biggest problem at the moment is that the Cubs lost to the Red Sox last night, which, when put into perspective, is hardly catastrophic. After all, there’s still a lot of the season left,” he said.
She made a hoarse sound that grated against his ears; he realized it was supposed to be laughter. “Well, I think my season’s almost over.”
A heavy silence. Then the man’s eyes flickered up to Dinah’s face, calculating. “I’m going to put those words into worst case scenario and assume that you’re talking suicide.”
She fixed her gaze somewhere over his left shoulder and nibbled at a fingernail for a moment. “I could tell you that I’ve never considered it.”
“But?”
“But that would be lying.”
“Did something happen recently?” he asked, but after seeing her raised eyebrows, added impatiently, “No, don’t give me that look, I’m not an idiot. Something’s obviously happened. And I’d bet every penny I own that you aren’t planning on telling me.”
“Every penny you own? Which would be a total of what, about twenty bucks?”
“You’re changing the subject.”
“I find it much more entertaining to talk about your financial issues than my state of mind.”
The man looked at her crossly, ignoring the truth in her words. Sure, the bar was looking a bit shabby, but he wasn’t selling it until the roof caved in on top of him. Which, according to Dinah, wasn’t too far away.
Another rumble of thunder. He felt it this time, felt the vibrations as they shook the building, and bit his lip. If the power went out, he had no back-up generator to resort to.
Dinah looked at him absently. “The forecast has predicted this kind of weather for all of this week, and even some of next week.”
“Oh?”
“I’ve always hated the rain. Wet in general, really. When I was little, I told myself that I’d be the princess of somewhere hot and dry. Like Arizona. I loved the cacti.”
“Arizona doesn’t have princesses,” he said unnecessarily.
“Well, yes, but try and tell that to my six-year-old self.”
With another flash of lightning, the old bartender grinned. “Arizona’s a long way away from here, honey.”
She glanced thoughtfully out the window at the sheet of rain. “Hmm. So I’ve noticed.”
He refilled her glass, and, for what seemed like an eternity, the two of them sat in silence, both preoccupied with their own worries. The only sound in the bar was the occasional shiver of wind, or Dinah slurping up the last remnants of her Shirley Temple. Soon enough the bar’s owner went over to an outdated television set and turned on the Cubs game; even when it was on, though, he seemed not to notice when his team hit a grand slam.
The bartender could only endure the silence for so long before he looked at his customer, his face criss-crossed with worry lines and old age. "How's work? The boss still giving you a hard time?"
Dinah frowned into her ice-filled cup, gazing intently at something. "What? Oh. No, she's not."
"You hesitated."
"I did?"
"Yes, you did."
"Is it really any of your business?" she snapped, but her voice was more preoccupied than angry. She adjusted the glass and looking into it from a different angle.
The lights flickered and an announcer's voice boomed from the television set, comparing the current pitcher to some baseball legend from way-back-when. The bartender laughed drly. "Well, Dinah, dear, since you're 'bout the only business I get nowadays, I was just trying to make conversation."
He resumed his cleaning, taking out a rag and methodically wiping nonexistant crumbs off of the countertop. For a moment it seemed as if Dinah would decline to comment, but then she set down the glass and looked him square in the eye.
"She's not giving me a hard time anymore because I quit." Her eyes had hardened into a clear-cut blue, an emotion stirring behind them that the bar's owner could not place.
The swish of his rag continued rhythmically, even when he looked up in suprise. "You quit?"
She wound a strand of dark hair into a perfect ringlet and tucked it behind her ear. "Well, technically, she fired me. But I hate it there anyway. I would've left one way or another."
"Fired? How're you plannin' to pay for school?"
This was met with silence; the girl closed her eyes and stirred the ice cubes left in the cup. The sound of her spoon clashing against the glass soon fell in time with his cleaning, and with the announcer's enthusiastic narration and the thunder outside, the bar became a symphony of deep concentration.
Somewhere in the seventh inning, Dinah stood up suddenly and slipped a five dollar bill across the counter. She offered an unconvincing smile and refused the change.
“Dinah, I’m worried about you. Don’t go hurting yourself, now.”
“No, no.” She waved off his caution and pulled out her lipstick, re-applying it with careful precision so that this time it actually landed on her lips, wiping off the wayward smears. “I’m fine. Really. I’m not the suicidal type.”
“Alright. You’re coming back tomorrow, right?”
“Yeah, tomorrow. Of course.”
She smiled with a bit more success and waved just as another flash of lightning struck, each ring on her hand glimmering. The chime sounded again, this time much less frantically, as if letting a customer leave wasn’t near as important as getting them to come in.
Just before the door shut, the bartender looked up suddenly. “Wait, Dinah! Your umbrella! You forgot it!”
She didn’t turn around to get it, and he could barely hear her as the door shut behind her. “Thanks, but you can have it. I won’t need it anymore.”
*
The next evening, Dinah Palatino didn’t show up for her nightly Shirley Temple. The bar’s owner stayed open for a half-hour past his usual closing time, but his only company was the storm outside, and it was hardly any consolation.
When he locked up the place, he nearly tripped over something that had been deposited on his doorstep. It was small and green, and (as he discovered after picking it up) very prickly. He bent down to examine it closer, his eyes narrowing as he recognized the object.
A cactus. It wasn't much larger than a lightbulb, but had been potted in a plastic green container that offered an abundance of growing room. Someone had taken a post-it note and pierced it with a spike of the cactus, face down. After wrestling with the scrap of paper for a moment in an attempt to avoid being impaled, the bartender pulled it off and flipped it over.
Four words, scrawled messily. The rain had made the ink run so that it was almost illegible, but he could still make out the words.
From the Arizona Princess.
[Critiques are greatly appreciated, as well as people's guesses on what Dinah ended up doing after the story finishes. I'd also like to know if it bothered anyone that the bartender was never named. This is my second entry out of the required five for the contest. Thanks for reading!]
EDIT: Much thanks to naturesgirl, Clo, Teague, Lin, and Dudette for your critiques! ^^
good luck in the contest!
*kidding*
Oh my, I love Dinah! She seems so quirky and just one of those out there people. But I wish you could have shown a little more of her out-thereness. It would have been even better, in my opinion. The bartender seems really nice as well and very well set up. Good job! 
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