Pouring Dreams
Natalie's POV
I had scrolled through the same job listings for what felt like the hundredth time today, refreshing the page like my life depended on it, because technically it did. The results were always the same. Sorry, we’ve chosen another candidate.
I had received so many calls from the places I applied to, and it still went the same way every single time. Another polite rejection. Another door closed. Another reminder that I was still stuck in this shithole, behind a bar, pouring drinks for people who barely noticed me.
Which, honestly, was a good thing. Being noticed did not always end well.
I sighed and locked my phone, shoving it into the back pocket of my pants as if that would make the disappointment disappear. It did not. The dim neon glow of the club’s lights barely reached past the bar, leaving most of the room swallowed by thick darkness. Faces blurred together under the flashing lights, bodies moving to the beat like they were part of one endless loop. The music was deafening, the bass pounding so hard it rattled my ribs with every beat.
I often wondered how people enjoyed this and called it fun. Maybe it was easier when you were drunk, high, or numb enough not to care. Maybe when you did not have bills stacking up or dreams slipping through your fingers. I had gotten used to it, though. The noise faded into the background now, a dull hum that drowned out the louder voices in my head. The ones that whispered I had failed. The ones that screamed I should be further in life than this.
I always thought getting a degree was everything I needed to get where I wanted to be and achieve all my dreams. That was what they told us, right? Study hard. Graduate. Get a job. Build a life. Turns out that was a big fat lie. Years spent buried in textbooks, nights lost to assignments and deadlines, only to be told I lacked experience. As if experience just appeared out of thin air.
How was I supposed to get it if no one was willing to give me a chance?
The frustration sat heavy in my chest as I wiped down the counter, my hands moving automatically while my mind spiraled. I could do more than this. I was more than this. Yet here I was, counting bottles, wiping spills, smiling at strangers who did not care who I was beyond the next drink.
The sharp clink of glass snapped me out of my thoughts. I looked up just in time to see a man at the far end of the bar waving his hands like he was trying to flag down a helicopter.
“Hey! Can I get another beer?” he slurred, his words thick and lazy with alcohol.
I stared at him for half a second longer than necessary. I do not think you need another bottle, but who cares. Knock yourself out.
I pasted on my customer service smile, the one I had perfected over the years. “Sure thing,” I said, reaching into the fridge and grabbing a cold bottle. I popped the cap off with one hand and slid it across the counter.
Another night of serving drinks to people who would not remember my face or my name by morning. They did not care that I had a degree. They did not care that I wanted more than this life. All they saw was a bartender. A girl behind a counter. Someone there to look good, serve alcohol, and fade into the background.
I watched the bottle spin slightly before the man caught it, then turned away to grab another order. The routine was familiar, almost numbing. Pour. Smile. Nod. Repeat.
When I slid another drink toward him, he tipped his bottle at me, his grin wide and sloppy. His eyes were bloodshot, unfocused. I forced another smile, already bracing myself.
He leaned closer, invading my space, his breath hot and rancid against my face. “You’re too pretty to be working here,” he said, his voice dropping as if he thought it was flattering. “You could be doing something… more.”
No s**t, Sherlock.
I had heard that line more times than I could count. Different faces, same words. Men who thought attraction was a compliment and opportunity wrapped in one sentence. It was not even worth reacting to anymore. I stepped back, creating space between us, and reached for another bottle to serve a different customer.
I was not stupid. I knew exactly what this job was. It was not about skill or ambition. It was about survival. It paid some of my bills. Not all, but enough to keep me afloat. The last thing I needed was to get fired because I snapped at some drunk i***t who thought my existence revolved around his approval.
Until I figured out how to break this endless cycle, I would be here. Smiling when I wanted to scream. Dodging crude comments. Pretending I was fine when I was anything but.
The hours dragged on, slipping by in a blur of drink orders and meaningless small talk. Laughter rose and fell around me. Glasses clinked. Music thumped. I could not remember the last time I had a night to myself. Or the last time I did not feel guilty every time I opened my email and saw nothing but silence.
Eventually, the clock above the bar blinked to 2 a.m.
Relief washed through me. I grabbed my bag from under the counter, tying my apron off with tired fingers. I did not care about the crowd anymore or the looks that followed me as I moved toward the back. My shift was over. That was all that mattered.
I stepped outside into the cool night air and inhaled deeply. The difference was immediate. No sweat. No alcohol. No overpowering cologne. Just air. The city stretched out around me in blurred lights and distant sounds. My feet throbbed in my heels, my body exhausted, my mind numb from hours of noise and repetition.
Nothing had changed. My degree was still gathering dust. My ambitions were still buried beneath overdue bills and rent reminders. The weight of it all pressed down on me as I pulled out my phone.
I texted my roommate, who was also my best friend, asking if she was awake. Renting a place was harder than I imagined, and I could not afford it alone. Another reason I needed something better. Another reason failure was not an option.
I walked down the street, passing the flashing neon sign of the club, and opened my email again. My thumb hovered over the screen as I scrolled through unread messages, hope and dread tangling in my chest.
I did not know why I kept doing this to myself. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was desperation. But giving up felt worse than rejection.
Tomorrow morning, I would try again. One more application. One more attempt.
I owed myself that much.
I was not meant to rot behind a bar forever. Even if the world had not realized it yet, I would keep pushing until it did.
