Meanwhile
John Smith
The Tavern
I wasn't supposed to be here. I knew that even before it had occurred to me to leave.
Even though it had been well over a year since the initial warrant went out and the majority of people still thought I was dead, all it would take was one person, one person to recognize me- my walk or my face- and blow the whole thing. Thinking this, I pulled the hood further over my head and chose a table near the door.
The waitress at the bar eyed me suspiciously. She said something to the bar tender who poured a pint of something gold and gave it to her. I watched as she made her way over to me, her expression none too pleased.
"You shouldn't be here," she whispered as she sat the drink down in front of me. It was frothy at the top and smelled like barley.
"I know," I said, "but I couldn't take the silence anymore."
Isabel frowned. Her long, black hair was pulled back from her face and secured with a scarf which she'd wrapped around her head. Her apron was dirty, and she had a single hoop in her left ear. It swayed disapprovingly as she shook her head.
"Ali will be back tonight," she said. "And I'll be off in a little bit too."
I took a sip of the beer that she brought me. It was cool and refreshing against my throat.
"I'll be fine," I said, placing it back on the table. Still, she continued to look at me, her emerald eyes blaring and then narrowing slightly.
"Fine," she said. "Twenty minutes. That's it."
I don't think either of us were surprised when it was only eight.