23rd of Vhalar, Arc 720
“You’d think he’d give me a raise after how long I’ve been working here,” Delilah grumbled, studying the bar counter as though it held the answers she was seeking. She hadn’t asked anything aloud, but she wondered why she wasn’t being paid as well as she thought she deserved.
Cierne shrugged, knowing her coworker’s thinking aloud didn’t really pertain to her. However, she still wanted to show some semblance of understanding in case Delilah was seeking reassurance from her.
“I totally agree,” said a waiter whom Cierne hadn’t properly met before. He strolled up to where Cierne and Delilah were standing. “The tips here aren’t that great, and I have a niece at home I have to take care of.”
Cierne dutifully wiped the counter top with a dirty dish rag, absentmindedly listening to their complaints.
The night had yet to pick up, and at this rate she doubted it would be very busy. While the tavern hadn’t suffered too much damage from the earthquake on the 1st, and therefore didn’t require much repairing, other places weren’t as lucky. Everyone was probably still fixing the broken and thus had no time for a drink. She had served a total of three patrons in the last hour and all three had oddly requested the same thing.
“What about you, Constance?” Delilah asked, addressing the young Naer with a raised eyebrow and a scrutinizing expression.
Cierne snapped to attention at the mention of her alias. She hadn’t been paying that close attention. She shrugged again, unsure of how to answer. Should she side with her coworkers or stay silent and ensure she remained a good employee?
Delilah gave her no more than a moment’s time to answer before resuming her complaining.
“I mean, I've worked here a little over an arc and my paycheck hasn’t seen any progress.”
“You’ve worked here over an arc?” The waiter asked bewildered.
Delilah nodded her head and widened her eyes like it was the most outrageous thing. “I know right?”
The waiter clicked his tongue and shook his head. The two continued to whine, and Cierne quickly lost interest in their conversation. A new patron had entered the bar and her intent was on requesting a drink.
Cierne offered to help her, slipping away and leaving her coworkers to continue their bleating. She couldn’t relate to them, at least not yet. She hadn’t been working at this establishment for more than a season, so she was in no rightful position to argue with the state of her current income.
“How can I help you?” she asked, disposing of the filthy rag and placing her hands face down on the counter top.
The young woman set her purse down on a stool beside her and took a seat. Her hair was wiry and unkempt, her eyes held bags underneath bags and were darkened with a smear of kohl.
“Something strong,” she said softly. She looked like she had seen better trials, but Cierne withheld herself from judging too harshly.
She bestowed a different persona when she was working compared to the one she had anytime else. Perhaps it was because she wanted to make a good impression so that she could continue her work as a bartender. Making drinks was something she enjoyed and while there was the occasional asshole that sauntered into the bar like they owned the place, the patrons she helped were quite nice.
“Anything specific?” Cierne asked, biting her lip in anticipation. She hoped for something easy, otherwise she’d have to call Delilah over and Delilah was already in an irritable state.
The woman sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She was obviously stressed about something.
“Whisky,” she finally said.
While she had tried so hard to persist in her judgment less attitude, several negative opinions had risen to the surface. This woman did not look like she was of the whisky drinking type. Cierne was still a novice bartender, especially at this particular location, but of the patrons she had served, all who had requested whisky were of the burly masculine type. This woman in front of her was petite, soft spoken and, had she looked in a mirror and preened herself before going out, pretty. She had a sharp jaw and a regal nose, her eyes the color of moss. A few freckles dotted her cheeks which gave way to high cheekbones. Cierne couldn’t help but feel slightly jealous of how beautiful she was.
Cierne hadn’t realised she had been staring until the woman snapped her fingers in front of her face.
“It’s not polite to stare,” she said with narrowed eyes.
Cierne inwardly growled at her rude gesture, but bowed her head and averted her gaze out of respect. Apologizing, she decided to explain why she had been staring.
“You have lovely eyes, and I'm not just saying that for a tip,” she said, turning to begin making the requested beverage.
The woman sighed, but smiled. “Thank you,” she said rubbing her eyes and smearing the kohl that rimmed her waterline further.
“I’ll make you one of our whisky specials, a whisky sour,” said Cierne, grabbing a clean glass from the drying rack above her. Then she started her search for a bottle of whisky.
The air filled with an awkward tension that swiftly became unbearable. While not one for small talk, the Naer needed something to fill the emptiness that lingered between them.
“Rough day?” She called, hoping this assumption wasn’t too out of line. If the woman was an avid drinker and had come to a bar on more than just one occasion, she had to know that bartenders tended to spark conversation with something.
Cierne turned to look at the woman who’s eyes had now filled with tears. It wouldn’t matter if they fell. Her makeup was already ruined as it was.
“You could say that,” she whimpered.
Cierne furrowed her brow and puckered her lips, an expression of concern she seldom displayed.
“Oh, honey.” She crossed the small gap between her workstation and the counter top the woman sat at.
“Do you want to talk about it? Bartenders make for excellent listeners.”
The woman brushed some of her wild hair behind a small ear and took a deep breath. Cierne could see that she was debating on spilling the details of whatever it was that was haunting her.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I just thought I’d lend an ear.”
Before she turned back to her work, the woman spoke. “My boyfriend dumped me through a letter.” She batted her eyes, attempting to blink back the tears that threatened to fall down her sharp cheeks. She outstretched a hand that held a sheet of paper.
“You can read it,” she said, offering to Cierne what was assumed to be the letter her boyfriend had written.
Cierne took it hesitantly and gave one last lingering gaze at her patron, seeking for a final nod of approval. Having received none, she began reading anyway.
“Dear Marabel,
I hope this finds you well. I hope you’ve been well in general, actually. You know I only ever want what’s best for you. Which is why I have to tell you I can’t be with you anymore. It’s not you, it’s me. You deserve so much better and I can’t give you that. I’m sorry.
Sincerely, Thomas”
Cierne reread the message, her blue eyes flickering back and forth over the terrible penmanship.
After she had finished, she handed the letter back to Marabel and sighed.
“If he isn’t willing to change himself to be what you deserve, then I say it’s a good thing he left. It gives you the opportunity to find someone better.”
There was a pregnant pause between the two woman as Marabel mulled over Cierne’s advice. Cierne herself was astonished that she had said what she had. Since when had she been good at giving advice?
It wasn’t that she had just told her patron what she wanted to hear. Cierne knew from experience, though not from broken relationships, that if something wasn’t working out it was better to search elsewhere for something that did. It wasn’t a far stretch to voice this opinion, especially to someone who needed to hear it.
“Thank you,” Marabel suddenly said, filling the lull with her soft voice.
Cierne smiled and awkwardly returned to making her drink.
She had found the bottle of whisky and diligently poured a small amount into the glass she had obtained from the overhead drying rack. Locating a simple syrup, a rendition of a syrup from a certain tree Cierne couldn’t name, she added a few ounces using a conveniently located jigger, but man was it difficult. The syrup was so viscous! She was definitely using the wrong method and wasn’t able to get all of the syrup from out of the jigger and into the glass.
She sat back and stared at her current position in the process.
Shit, she thought to herself. This wasn’t going to mix very well if she just had it all sitting in a glass.
Sneaking a glance over her shoulder, she found that Marabel wasn’t paying much attention. Cierne breathed a sigh of relief at having not been caught making a huge mistake. She grabbed a cocktail shaker from a shelf and transferred what mixture she had from the glass to the cocktail shaker.
She added a few ounces of lemon juice using the same jigger she had used for the syrup, hoping the rest of the syrup in the jigger would transfer. Only a few droplets did, but it wasn’t the end of the world. She was still doing an okay job given what little experience she had.
Scooping a decent amount of ice from the ice box located to her left, she tossed the cubes into the shaker and placed the lid on top.
Cierne swiveled on her heel, shaker in hand and began to shake; she made sure she had one hand on the lid so it wouldn’t come flying off.
“Fancy,” Marabel commented, trying to lighten the mood with a subtle jest.
Cierne smirked and finalized her process by pouring the contents of the cocktail shaker back into the original glass she had used. She then scooted the glass towards her patron and bit her lip in anticipation.
“What, no garnish?” Marabel asked with a twitch of her nose and a raise of an eyebrow.
Cierne stuttered at first, trying to come up with a decent lie. She had forgotten a garnish too! While it wasn’t a necessity, she still liked to please.
“My fancy shaking techniques were the garnish,” she deadpanned.
Marabel snorted and threw back her drink, careful to avoid downing the ice cubes that swirled inside.
Cierne watched as she grimaced.
“Strong indeed, but I like the after taste” Marabel said before pushing herself away from the counter. She deftly placed a few coins onto the bar before hoisting her purse over her shoulder.
“Thank you for the drink,” she said. “And for the advice.” And with that, she turned to leave.
“What advice?” Delilah asked, sneaking up on Cierne. The Naer practically jumped out of her skin.
She shrugged and directed her eyes to the now empty glass that sat on the bar counter.
“Boyfriend troubles,” she finally said.
Delilah nodded. “Men are the worst.”
“Indeed,” Cierne replied, speaking to her dominating nature. “Indeed they are.”
x
