She drank from the silver glass. Both of her teeth shone through the only light source in the room. The pearly whites gleamed and created a glow for the rest of the bums in the bar. The pale smell of liquor and flypaper sat on her table as she placed the glass down.
“Bartender,” she rang out down the bar, waving her ring studded hand for her attention. “Do you think I could have another?”
Sally didn’t listen. Her head didn’t turn from the register and her fingers were furiously tapping the POS screen.
2 whiskey sour double up for the arguing couple.
3 vodka tonics, one grey goose end of the bar.
And 2 fucking coffees for the kids with the ID’s.
She finally turned her head to she the rich, haggard old shill of a woman. Her arms are wrapped up like gyros in her blouse.
And 1 fucking highball for the crow she thought.
Slamming the till shut, Sally turns and grabs another highball glass for the woman.
Selma is rattled. “For three full minutes I have tried to be polite and get this woman bartender’s attention,” she coddles herself fingering the glass.
“Three minutes!” she almost screams almost knocking over her glass. “The nerve,” she thinks and her forced smile presents.
“Miss, could I have …” she finally released under due pressure and poor restraint.
But Sally turns one final time, her hands are not shaking as much as rattling within her own skin.
“Highball, sqeeze of lime,” she passed for customer service to the old woman.
“Thanks so much,” Selma place five ones on the bar.
“You’re welcome,” Sally mutters, turning and grabbing a dishrag.