One
E
She's sitting on the curb, bawling her eyes out and clutching a box of office supplies against her chest. She doesn't belong in this part of town, that's for sure. Sitting in front of my bar in her pencil skirt and sky-high heels.
One of my regulars actually came in and told me about her. Waylon was merely worried for the safety of the young, beautiful and distraught townie, as we like to call them. The snobbish people who live, work, and breathe a mere eight blocks away from us little people. They're the same people who wouldn't get caught dead inside Rebar.
Someone like this little peach is surely in the wrong place, and it's only getting later in the day. Her sobs are ignored by the passing strangers, but that's probably for the best.
I decide to take pity on her as the sky darkens. I can smell the impending rain, and I doubt there's an umbrella in her box of goodies.
"So, did you get the boot today?" I ask, taking the spot next to her on the dingy curb.
We're complete opposites. She's sitting stoically straight, typical townie posture in her snobby office attire while I'm in worn and faded jeans, a holey advertising shirt for Jagermeister, and I'm actually relaxed in the way I sit.
She looks at me with swollen red eyes, hidden beneath fancy rimless glasses, and sniffs. "What's it to you?"
I chuckle because even though her voice is raw, she still manages to come off as stuck up.
"I've got a crying chick in front of my bar, looking as out of place as one can get. That makes me responsible for getting rid of you."
She chokes on a sob and clutches her get the fuck out box closer to her chest, and that's when I see it. The front of her blouse is torn and being held together by what looks like strategically placed staples and paper clips.
Fuck. I need to get her inside and possibly call the cops.