Shirley
The night pressed heavy against my shoulders as I finally pushed the bar door closed and locked it behind me. My feet ached in my boots, my back was sore from bending over tables, and my head throbbed from the endless drone of laughter, slamming bottles, and screeching chairs. It had been one of those shifts where every customer seemed louder, needier, and more oblivious than the last.
The neon lights above the bar flickered like they were tired too, and I muttered, “Join the club,” before tugging my jacket tighter.
Walking home had become my reluctant routine. My car—the same beat-up sedan I’d coaxed through too many miles—finally gave out last week. The mechanic looked at it, shook his head like a priest over a coffin, and told me to let it go. Beyond fixing, he said. Beyond
