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I’m shoving past the ridiculous amount of hipsters and expensive stores that line the street I know so well. Or should I say knew? Because this place no longer feels so much like home, not with the five bucks a beer - ridiculous - or the twenty bucks for a regular meal! It’s disgusting. They’ve veiled my polyester in velvet which never should have happened.
Someone glances judgementally at me. Who are they to do such a thing? With their daddy’s money and high horses they ride on. This is my home, I shouldn’t be goddamn glared at here!
I have to dodge when someone on an electric scooter rushes past me way too fast. Almost stumbling with the quickness of it all, I am standing face to face with a. . . bar? A new bar opened? It is colorful and expressive and everything that I am not. Glancing up, I realize that it is called The Seahorse - fuck kinda name is that? Whatever, whiskey’s whiskey, and maybe they’ll be cheaper than all these other disgustingly sweetened bars.
A chime maybe too loud rings in my ears, but I have heard louder. I take in my surroundings, there is music from some female popstar I don’t give enough of a shit about to remember. It’s upbeat, subtly sexual. The place is filled with effeminate dudes. Are they dudes? Wait, that one has a bulge, yep, dude. Maybe not so subtle. I look for the actual bar and find it. There are rainbow lights beneath the counter, dimmed for more of a stupidly cozy vibe. I - although reluctantly, take a seat at the pompous stools. A bartender eyes me as if I am nothing more than a street whore. Fuckin’ pervert.
“What can I do you for?” The voice is relaxed, like its priority isn’t me and something else. I was too busy giving that pervert the deadliest glare I could manage that the voice caught me by surprise. I look over, perhaps too quickly.
Who I see the voice belongs to is a rather well-groomed dark-skinned man who is scrubbing at a glass. His dreadlocks are tied back into a loose manbun where they fall and sit against his back comfortably. I was right, he isn’t paying much mind to me. I take a closer look and I can see that his hair is dyed rainbow where the bun begins. He isn’t speaking so loud, just loud enough to be heard over the blaring music, but his presence is loud, it demands attention. How did I not see him earlier?
“Whiskey, erm, neat.”
It’s weird. It’s new. I hate the way my order falls from my lips as if I’m asking for more than the service he is meant to give me. I see the man nod out of my line of view.
“Just whiskey, hm? Nothing special?” The way he says it is sensual, teasing, like a lioness approaching prey she knows will fall to her claws. It pisses me off. Not only the way he says it but also that he says whiskey is nothing special. Yeah, I know it’s nothing fucking special, that’s why I always order it. I don’t want some bullshit sweet cocktail that has about one measly percent of real alcohol. I wanna get drunk, or tipsy at the very least.
I don’t know why I’m getting so worked up over this. “Just whiskey,” I say, it’s passive-aggressive, it’s sharp. This whole day has been a hurricane of rich people invading my town and prancing around like they own the place. Which, yeah, the own most of the buildings. . . but that’s not the point I am trying to make. The point is that rich people think they can pretend they care about the poor and infest our areas.
A soft clink breaks me from the confines of my mind and I look up. The unnamed man has pushed the whiskey toward me. He must’ve noticed me staring for a time because he says, “Molar.”
“What?”
“My name, I’m assuming you wanted it based on how you were staring.” A tug at the corners of his mouth reveals a set of imperfect teeth. They don’t meet those unrealistic expectations all these rich people have. I have imperfect teeth, more yellow than white because I smoke constantly. It’s dark, but- wait, does he have only molars for teeth? Shit! He does, that’s actually pretty sick. Where canines should be are molars - albeit a bit sharper than your average molar - and where front teeth should be are also molars. They’re a little crooked. It’s really interesting.
Oh, was he flirting with me?
“Uh. . . Roadkill.”
“What?” He sounds amused.
“My name.”
“Huh, nice stage name.”
“Not a stage name,” I grumble it out, practically grinding my teeth. His name is fucking Molar and he finds my name strange? Like it’s strange enough to be a stage name?
“Right! Yeah, right. Cool name.” Oddly, Molar - as I now know him by - looks charmed. The fuck?
“My parents just named me the first thing that came to mind. So.” Again, I am despising the way the things I say are coming out. Why is my voice so shaky? I sound like this is my first time in a bar.
“I see, yeah, mine’s just ‘cause of my teeth. And that I don’t really like my birth name.” I nod simply at his explanation and reach for my wallet to pay for the whiskey. He stops me, outreaching a hand with rainbow painted nails, they have gems on them. “On the house.”
“The fuck? Why?” It sounds almost like a growl. Like I’m pissed that I don’t have to pay. Which is not true, honestly, I’m thrilled. But, this isn’t a favor from your friend who happens to be a bartender. I just met the guy, and he’s telling me my drink is on the house?
Oh, he is flirting with me.