Silver streaks were painted on the canvas of hair located above the stranger's forehead. The aging bartender assumed that their ages were fairly evenly matched, 40, give or take a year or two. He shrugged, caring not to watch another empty soul drink and instead sipped a bit more of his own. Placing it down, he reached under the long wooden bar towards his cabinet, pulling open a shiny handle to reveal his trusted old rag. He scrubbed at the matte surface of the oak for a moment before dejectedly giving up, realizing the years of grime would never rub off.
Twisting his lanky body towards the small mirror he couldn't help thinking that his face, and perhaps his soul, was something like that old piece of shit that housed the quickly emptying mugs of the dozens who drunk away their sorrows. His face was worn, his hair darkened to red brown from neglect. His hazel eyes had no glitter, almost as matte as the dirt counter in front of him. He lips were pressed constantly, giving his face a sort of permanent wrinkle. His heart was sunken and his smile faded, and much too rare to come by these days.
The entire pub gave a glow of darkness, a kind of depressing mist lay heavy in the air, choking at his lungs when he breathed in too deep. The stranger sitting on the stool across from him smiled and took a whiff.
"So this is what's become of Three Broomsticks eh?" He said and the bartender lifted his head.
" What brings you here then?" He challenged, not liking to see his employment mocked by this salt and pepper bum. The man squinted, running his hands through that stressed hair.
"Don't ask questions." He sneered.
The bartender almost smiled. "I suppose I'm not going to be able to get your order then."
The man's eyebrows narrowed, "Something to cheer me up," He said, and his eyes twinkled.
The bartender shrugged, "Some things can't be cured by rum and butterbeer." He muttered, he knew this routine by heart.
"What's that suppose to mean?" The stranger said, looking like a buzzard ready to strike. His graying black hair did resemble feathers, if you squinted and went cross-eyed.
"Relax. I meant a little lady can cure plently more, and it's better for your liver." At this the bartender did smile. "Unless she's got herpes...."
The stranger didn't even crack a smile, "Where do ya 'pose I'd find me a li'l lady?" He said.
"Why you talking like that? You haven't had a single drop of liquor." The bartender said, that wonderfully rare smile never fading.
"Don't ask questions. And answer mine. Where am I suppose to find someone who could love," He gestured to himself. "This."
The routine came him so simply now, it was sad. "There is this one girl...." His voice trailed off and his eyes wandered. The stranger shifted, feeling uncomfortable. "They call her..." He stopped for a moment. "She don't like to spend her nights alone." He said finally.
"She a slut?" The stranger asked.
The bartender tried to contain her anger. "She's what we call, Easy."
***
Easy was like a flower. A flower that needed water very badly. She was tired looking, yet happy. Always so happy, even when thunder made rain that started to beat down on roof and lighting lit up the room. She had a worn smile, worn form overuse and nothing more. She looked like some kind of angel whore, her hair blond as clouds with roots like the soil in summer. She glowed off white, her skin was good for someone that old and her heart was still young. She wasn't great-looking, but she was gentle and sweet.
She had so much love to give, and too many takers.
The bartender sighed looking at her. He hated to see her come in every day and sit there. Hated to see the boys walk up to her, flirting, knowing what they'd get. He'd hate to the look of hope in her eyes, that wide eyed innocence that she should of lost years ago. Hated to see them dissapear upstairs with teenage smiles framing their face. Hated to see them come down, just a bit of twinkle left in her eyes. Hated when they'd leave her there, smile faded. Hated how she'd run upstairs, tears rushing out of her blue eyes. Hated when she'd come back, smile back and eyes still red.
Easy sat down at her usaul stool.
The stranger walked up to her, "How are you?" and she smiled her typical smile. Then she looked real close, like she saw something most people didn't, staring at that mess of bangs he had. The bartender supposed she was counting the grays, Maybe people our like trees, instead of counting their rings you count their gray and you know how old they are.
And she looked at the bartender real hard and looked back at the stranger. She was trying to tell him something so bad. He didn't know what though. He didn't know much of anything anymore, 'cept that butterbeer ruins wine glasses. That's all you really gotta know these days. Wine.
Easy was alot like an empty wine glass, he supposed. All that sweet wine had been drunken and all that was left was a sweet smell and a hangover. Girl were alot like wine, he thought to himself with a sigh. They're great while there, but if you ask too much of them they dissapear.
He'd loved a girl once. She had smelled like lemon and dust. Smelled alot like the bar when he tried cleaning, come to think of it. Maybe that's why he always took that lemon drenched rag over the dirty oak. He wasn't sure. He just knew that he loved the smell of lemons and dust a whole lot.
Easy and the stranger walked upstairs. She looked more ecstastic then usaully.
The bartender knew why Easy went up there all time. A long time ago some boy broke her heat and every single day she'd cry over how no one would love her. One day she met some nice fellow and they went upstairs. He told her he had to goto America and that he'd be back in for her in a week. He never came back, the bartender knew that. Still, Easy found a new man every night. They stopped telling her they'd come back years ago though. He doubted she cared.
***
Easy had two candles in her room. They were burnt many a time each week and they gave off a scent very similar to pheramones. She looked at the candles next victim, so to speak. She reckonized him, and that made her smile. He looked at her grin, knee-deep in skeptism.
"Don't do that." he said bluntly.
"Do what?" She asked, her eyes twinkling, looking far too naive for a Thirty-nine year old.
"Smile." he said, glaring. "And don't ask questions." Her smile faded and he leaned in to kiss her.
It could of been better.
***
It wasn't long before the man walked back down from the upstairs room. He smiled and slid up onto a worn stool. "Thanks." He said.
"She didn't want to come down with you." He said, making sure not to put this in question form.
"She was crying." The stranger said. He smiled, "She's very easy, isn't she?"
The bartender glared. "I wouldn't know."
The man laughed, "Maybe you should try her out sometime."
His glare intensified, "She's my sister."
He laughed, "Nice little slut, isn't she?"
The bartender sighed, "I had hoped you weren't that type of guy. In this world... we need more Easys." He exhaled deeply, "But nowadays we all bottle up our love. Love's sort of like wine I suppose. You just keep it bottled up and stare it, use it as an ornament, but you can't drunk off a unopened bottle."
"I love plenty, love my wife and kids enough."
The bartender raised a brow, "Wife? Kids?"
The man pulled out a wallet size of a mousy woman with wavy brown hair and two children, one with jet black hair and brown eyes, and the other with brown curls highlighted by green eyes.
"What's her name?" The bartender asked, eyes glazed.
"Don't ask questions." The man said, just as so many had said to him, so many times.
With that he left, and as he leant back in his stool Ron Weasley couldn't help but wonder if his wife smelt like book dust and Lemon....