Light And Local, On The Rocks

Stheno: Chapter Two

This is the second chapter of Stheno, a five-part urban fantasy novella.

Chapter One may be read here.

The header image is by EliseEnchanted on DeviantArt.

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Kylie felt like her head was going to explode. The grating screech of barstools like so many nails on a chalkboard. The roaring, wavelike murmur of a hundred patrons talking, laughing, arguing, all at once. The pert tink of ice in glasses. The harsh light cast forth by the wall-mounted TVs airing the Phillies game. The middling rendition of Eric Clapton coming from a local band up on the stage. The constant squeak of the heavy entrance door opening and closing, its hinges in desperate need of oiling. All combined into a maelstrom of searing, unbearable noise.

She wanted aspirin. Another barstool scraped the floor. Needed aspirin. Some drunken fool leaned his head back and loosed a harsh bark of laughter at an inanity spouted by a makeup-caked blonde. She couldn’t bear it much longer. But she had seven tables to cover and no time to run back to her purse to retrieve any painkillers. All of her customers, every single one she would wait on the entire evening, required her best performance. Tonight was make-it-or-break-it for her rent.

It was a grave task, made all the more difficult by the fact that she couldn’t stop staring at the door. Every time it wheezed open her breath hitched and her wide eyes darted towards it. And every time, it was just another customer. She couldn’t figure out why she was so jittery. Why she couldn’t shake the completely irrational fear that, at any moment, something terrible was going to walk through that door.

“Did you hear me?”

Kylie flushed as she was roused from her migraine reverie, and slapped on her best PanAm smile. “I’m sorry. Could you repeat that?”

The customer scoffed. A forty-something receptionist, her nametag still clipped to her collared blouse and her business-casual boyfriend seated across from her. She drummed her fingers impatiently on the dark, polished wooden table. “I said I wanted the ten-piece boneless wings with mild sauce, a pretzel basket, and a gin and tonic.”

“Right, okay!” Kylie said, her voice cracking a bit as she jotted it down, below the boyfriend’s order she’d already taken, “No problem. I’ll be right back.”

She walked away briskly, her high ponytail bobbing after her. Silently, she wrote off the possibility of a decent tip from that table. And yet, despite the financial pressure, the thought didn’t bother her greatly at the moment. She glanced over her shoulder as she walked back to the kitchen. At the door again. She shivered from more than just the cold as it opened a crack, and turned away stiffly before she could see who was coming in. Just another customer, she told herself. Nobody’s coming to get you. You’re paranoid, Kylie. You’re off your damn rocker.

She was still shivering when she walked into the kitchen to pin the order up, and she leaned against the wall to catch her breath. Relishing the warmth radiating from the ovens, rubbing her arms and holding her ice-chilled hands out over one of the fryers like it was the world’s last campfire. And as she stood there in the delightful heat, she felt a hushed sough riffle through her body, as if her muscles were all flexing like a sheet of lake-ice on a sunny winter morning. Her tummy grumbled at the swirl of delicious scents wafting from the kitchen and she decided she was definitely going to pinch a few boneless wings later on; they were just too good to resist.

As she leaned, Frank turned deftly from one of his skillets to pluck the order off the wall. Lucky timing, that. Frank looked, reassuringly in an odd way, exactly like a cook was supposed to. Fat and jowly, but pleasant and bright-eyed. Quick to anger only when his food was critiqued. Otherwise he was a jovial tub of jello.

“That was fast,” Kylie said. She coughed dryly. Her throat felt tight. Her chest, too. Definitely some kind of illness, even if for the first few hours she’d chalked it up to nervousness over her rent, the eviction notice looming over her head. Felt like the flu, but August would be a weird time to come down with it.

“Thanks. Give me ten minutes for the grinder and seven for the wings,” Frank said. When he smiled his face mushed like bread-dough. “You feelin’ alright?”

“Yeah,” Kylie fibbed. She shook her head. “Just tired. Why?”

“Look a little pale,” Frank shrugged, before pirouetting back to his cooking. Almost in the same motion, he dumped another load of wings onto an oven tray. Had to work fast. Friday night happy hour was in full swing at Sweeney’s Saloon, and being right next to Somerton Station meant that every twenty minutes another trainload of people walked into the bar looking to wet their whistles. “Don’t wander too far, I got your ten and twelve orders coming up in two minutes.”

“I’ll just hang around then,” Kylie replied, welcoming the chance to continue her brief respite from the cold. Normally the saloon, though air-conditioned, was kept tolerably warm by the heat generated from the kitchen and lots of warm bodies in close quarters, but tonight the barroom floor was tundra cold and she felt like her bones were made of ice. She wore a thin gray cardigan over her red work shirt, but this helped little and she longed for a hoodie.

And her skin… it wasn’t just cold. It tingled. The odd sensation had begun almost imperceptibly on her bus ride in, gradually increasing in intensity as the day dragged on. Now it was impossible to ignore. It felt like some low-voltage electric current was coursing through her whole body, buzzing along every nerve all at once. It didn’t hurt. Just felt strange. Unsettling. She’d never felt anything like it and didn’t know what to make of it. But there was nothing to be done for it, and since it wasn’t anything she couldn’t work through, she did. Not like she had any other choice.

“Alright Kylie, here’s ten and twelve,” Frank said.

Kylie reluctantly pushed off the wall and held out a platter in each hand, which Frank loaded up with a Cajun chicken sandwich and a twenty-piece order of wings for the married couple table five, then two orders of bang-bang shrimp and smoked baby pork ribs with a side of fries for the college guys at table six. Her arms sagged under the load as Frank piled on sauces and coleslaw onto each tray, and the cook eyed her warily. “You sure you got all that?”

“Yeah, no worries. I need the workout,” Kylie joked.

She turned to go and immediately regretted taking both platters. Normally she could handle two with ease, but tonight her arms felt weak. Like she’d just finished a heavy exercise session. The tingling sensation intensified into a cold itch where the rims of the platters pressed into her arms, and she felt a difficult-to-resist urge to to drop them so she could scratch it away. As it was, she allowed it to drive her mad until she reached table five and dropped off the first order with what she thought was a slightly unhinged smile. She rubbed her itchy, now-freed arm against her shirt as she took the second tray over to the college guys. Then she went to collect the bill from table eight, a group of older gentlemen who tipped her a handsome thirty bucks before heading out.

Thirty bucks. That was damn fine. She was only short a hundred and forty now. The bar was open til two… plenty of time. Plenty of customers. She’d make it. She scratched at her tingling cheek, her brow. Then she took a deep breath to get back into “the zone.” It rattled in her chest, as if her lungs were thick with phlegm. She suppressed another cough and walked over to the bar to get the prissy receptionist her gin and tonic. One for her poor boytoy, too.

As Kylie approached the bar she saw Sarah leaning on the counter, busily chewing gum while waiting for the bartender to fill up her own drinks tray. Sarah was a walking tip jar. Clad in a pair of black tights and a red t-shirt that was two sizes too small, her honey blonde hair done up in a voluminous French twist. She smiled at Kylie right before blowing a huge, pink bubble that she popped skillfully and then returned to her cherry red lips.

“Hey,” she said wryly, nodding ahead, “Total boat at table nine.”

“Boat?” Kylie asked, drumming her fingers on the counter trying to warm them. The tingling was starting to become a nuisance. It reminded her vaguely of the slow thawing sensation she’d feel if she’d just entered a warm building after being outside for a long time on a bitter winter day, only in reverse- instead of warming her, she grew ever colder as the tingling continued. She wanted to pull Joe out of his office and ask him what the air conditioner was set to, because this was obscene.

“You know…” Sarah said, rolling her eyes at Kylie. “Dreamboat. He just came in, all alone. I’ve got my hands pretty full,” she gestured to her drinks tray, “and Emily is busy waiting on some college guys, so he’s unattended at the moment.”

“Oh. Oh, I see.”

“Your call,” Sarah shrugged innocently, before taking her drinks platter from the bartender and prancing back out onto the floor.

“Okay then,” Kylie murmured to herself. She watched Sarah strut away, swaying her hips just right to earn a whistle and a dozen stares after her. The tights really did flatter her figure, Kylie thought ruefully as she looked down at her own faded jeans. She turned to the bartender. “Shane, I need two gin and tonics.”

The door squeaked open loudly behind her. Kylie inhaled sharply and twirled to face it like it were the roar of a lion. Just a twenty something guy and his girlfriend. They didn’t notice her, but she flushed anyway. At her own silliness. Stupidity, more like. She leaned back against the counter and huffed out a sigh of relief. Gripping the laminate as if reassured by its firmness. The one thing in the place that seemed stable. Not the patrons, not the televisions or the glasses or the stools or the pool tables, not even her own mind, but the firm Formica bar she could trust.

“G’ an’ T, coming your way.”

Sliding glasses brought her back to the hustle and bustle of the bar. She reached her hand out and caught them on reflex, and when she glanced at the bartender who’d sent them over he was already facing away from her and pouring shots for a middle-aged couple.

She trotted off, the two gins in hand, and she brooded and chided herself as she took them back to the receptionists. Stop it, Kylie. You’re embarrassing yourself now. You know the exact reason why you’re so damn jumpy, and it’s an insane reason. You’re still stuck on Stheno. You think she’s coming to get you or something. Well, guess what? Stheno’s not coming. Why do you think she’s coming? She’s. Not. Coming. She was just a fucking weirdo. A weirdo wearing black contact lenses or something. It was a one-off meeting, and you’re never going to see her again. Stop thinking about her. Jesus, what’s wrong with you?

Kylie thanklessly left the receptionists their drinks, then headed for table nine, still mentally immolating herself as she went. She passed the bandstand- the band, some local group, had switched from desecrating Eric Clapton to an original song that better suited them- and wove her way through an obstacle course of patrons as she went. The bar was at full capacity, and would be for the rest of the night as people cycled in and out. The tipping waters were rich. As she walked, she shrugged off her cardigan down below her shoulders like a fur stole and fussed over her collar, her buttons. Did her best to make it look like her chest was straining against the red fabric of her shirt. A universal truth- your tips were directly proportional to your tits.

Table nine was tucked away in the furthest corner of the back bar, under a dim pink neon light. The chill got worse as Kylie left the more crowded part of the bar, and the thin fabric of her sleeves was no help. She shivered openly, her skin breaking out in goosebumps. As she walked she felt men’s eyes upon her. They didn’t want to order anything, just wanted to look, drinking in the sight of her. She was used to it.

When Kylie finally reached table nine, her mouth fell to the floor. Seated before her was a demigod.

He had a tall face with the squared, chiseled jawline of a sculpture. His cheeks were stubbled in shadow and engraved with the long, intense etchings of a man who’d spent much of his life outdoors. A strong brow framing small, deepset eyes. Hard eyes, the kind of eyes that could judge a man’s character in an instant, and had found many wanting. All crowned by a short, bristly crop of tawny brown hair. He wore a brown suede motorcycle jacket and was leaning on the table, hands clasped together at his chin, staring at the distant wall. Brooding deeply over something. She almost didn’t want to interrupt his thoughts.

The queer tingling that buzzed across her whole body intensified as she looked him over, and then she realized it wasn’t the same sensation at all. She just thought he was hot. She bit her lip. Yeah, he’s hot. But, she recalled the old advice, you don’t get your honey where you make your money. And speaking of, his jacket looks expensive. If you play this right, you can make up for the loss incurred with Miss Bitch over there, with interest.

So Kylie gathered herself up, pretended she wasn’t slowly freezing to death, and strutted over to his table.

“Hi there,” she beamed as she approached. Well, tried to beam, anyhow. She thought her voice sounded strained. Her throat still tight. Also just plain nervousness. She bounced back deliberately on her heels when she stopped. Just the right amount to make her breasts bob. Her joints creaked in the motion, like a house settling. She ignored it and smiled broadly. “I’m Kylie, I’ll be your waitress tonight. Can I get you something to drink?”

The man broke out of whatever deep thought he’d been lost in and looked up at her. Not her chest. Her face. Her eyes. His were startlingly green. He scanned her with that hard emerald gaze, looking for something, and it only took a split second before he found whatever it was he was searching for. Then his hard cheeks mellowed out into a smile, revealing a slight cleft in his chin.

“I’m Cedric,” he introduced himself, as if he were meeting the Queen of England and not simply addressing a random waitress, “I’m not from around here; just hit me with something light and local, on the rocks.”

“Light?” Kylie teased. Pen and paper already out, she jotted down ‘Yuengling lager’ on her pad. “You look like you’d be a bit more adventurous.”

“Usually am,” Cedric replied, “But I have some business to attend to later on. Don’t want to be too out of it.”

“Ooh,” Kylie mouthed, nodding. “Gotcha. Are you expecting anyone else, or…?”

“Just me tonight.” he replied, “Drink and a quick bite, then I gotta hit the road.”

“Let me guess- motorcycle?” She pursed her lips and scrunched her face in the coyest look of curiosity she could muster. Leaned into one hip to complete the effect. Cedric smiled. If she was reading him right, it was working perfectly so far.

“No, no,” he laughed, “Masserati.”

If Kylie were a cartoon character, her eyes would have turned to dollar signs. Hell, if you play this right, he might pay your rent all by himself.

“Ooooh,” she replied, “And is this ‘business’ you’re attending to a car show?”

“An art show,” he said, still smiling, “Down in Rittenhouse Square.”

“No kidding!” Kylie declared, so immediately interested that the miserly corner of her mind only barely noted Rittenhouse Square was one of the most opulent neighborhoods in Philadelphia. “What kind of art? Paintings?”

“I wish,” he replied. “You sound like you enjoy painting.”

“Umm, I don’t paint myself,” Kylie said, “But I could look at them forever.”

“You ever think about trying it?” he asked. His eyes twinkled as he spoke, like he was pleased to be in the warm, familiar currents of a subject he loved.

“Oh, I’d love to at some point,” she replied, swaying slightly on the ball of her foot. “Line and wash seems like a lot of fun.”

“Line and wash? That’s a fine medium. Do you draw at all?”

“Not really…” she said, thinking about the stack of unused sketchpads collecting dust in her closet. “I used to, but I’ve got a million other things going on that get in the way of it now.”

Cedric nodded. “I get that. But, it’s never too late to start, you know.”

“That’s true,” Kylie said, shuffling back a pace as she suddenly remembered where she was. He was honey… she needed money. Time was passing quickly, and she could hear Frank calling out orders from the kitchen.

She didn’t want to stop talking to Cedric. Wanted nothing more than to sit down and talk for the rest of the night about painters and painting and the whole realm of art. Over drinks, of course. Have someone serve her, for a change. And maybe back to his place afterwards, once she got to know him a little better, because Sarah was right he really was a “boat”… but that dreaded four-letter word reared out of her subconscious to drag her away from the fantasy- R-E-N-T.

“I- I’ve got some other tables that need refills,” Kylie stuttered, pointing her thumb lamely behind her.

Cedric nodded. His mouth turning down in a little, disappointed frown. “Right, right.”

“So here’s a menu, and…”

“Already got one,” he said, holding up the green slip, “Last guy must’ve left it here. I’ll have a London Broil Grinder.”

“Okee dokee,” Kylie said, raising up her pen and paper again.

She went to click the pen, and… couldn’t.

Her thumb seized, right as she had it half-cocked over the button. A spasm of red pain shot up her arm and she winced. She could still feel her thumb- indeed, it was tingling intensely. It just wouldn’t move. She stared down at her hand, trying to flex it, and realized with a splash of fear that all of her fingers were immobilized. Only in her right hand; her left was fine, and with it she hastily grabbed the pen out of her right’s rigor mortis grasp.

“Everything alright?” Cedric asked.

Kylie glanced at him, flushing. He was looking at her with a mixture of curiosity and concern. She chuffed nervously, then shook her right hand lazily on the air, trying to beat the feeling back into it as if it had merely fallen asleep. “Yeah, yeah. Just carpal tunnel. It acts up like that sometimes.”

“Oh,” he replied, “Sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she said. She balanced the notepad on her unresponsive right hand and sloppily jotted down Cedric’s order, trying to will her fingers back to life all the while.

“Well, I’ll be right back with that ‘light and local.’” Kylie said, smiling weakly as she gathered herself up. There was no way Cedric couldn’t see the fear dancing in her eyes. His own expression was muted. A faint twitch in his cheek. Concern? She couldn’t tell.

She winked as she turned to go but felt her heart sinking faster than a sack of bricks. Her inner voice castigated her as she walked morosely back to the bar. Way to blow it, retard. Really nice impression. I’m sure he’ll tip you just swell. You suck at everything, why the hell do you even try anymore?

In the midst of this mental reproach, she suddenly felt an explosion in her chest. Like her ribcage was buckling inwards, crushed by an intangible pressure. Jagged pain knifed her heart, starbursting out to her ribs and beyond. She inhaled sharply and staggered into the bar counter, holding onto the edge for dear life. Acid terror ate down her synapses. Christ, Christ. I’m too young to have a heart attack. Jesus God in Heaven please don’t let me have a heart attack.

“You okay, Kylie?” That was the bartender. Shane. New guy. She pieced together information like that. Short little fragments. As if brevity of thought could help her to focus, to exert control over her burning heart.

“No,” she replied feebly, unable to even look up yet. Fearing that any movement at all would cause the pain to return, to take her life. The sharpness of it had finally ended. Each heartbeat was a dull concussion of agony, but the stabbing pain was gone at least. “Need a lager. Yuengling.”

She slowly looked up and saw Sarah approaching, carrying a tray of empty glasses in her right hand which she carefully propped against her shoulder for balance. She smiled mischievously at Kylie. Probably expecting some smashing success story with the “boat”, but when she got close enough to see Kylie’s expression she blanched.

“My God, Kylie, what the hell happened?”

“What do you mean?” Kylie asked weakly, trying halfheartedly to pretend she was fine even as the lingering terror continued to dance up and down her nerves.

“You look awful,” Sarah said, her eyes wide, blue wells of concern.

“I feel awful,” Kylie replied.

“Did he throw an ashtray at you or something?”

“What?” Kylie said, unsure where the question even arose from. “No?”

Sarah set down her platter and nodded an I got this to the bartender, who had been watching Kylie with the shuffling, uncertain attentiveness of a bystander. She put her hand on Kylie’s forehead and rubbed it like she were trying to scrub a stain off. Her brow furrowed when her hand came away clean. Then she pressed her palm back to the same spot and held it for a moment. “You’ve got a fever. Go splash some water on your face; I’ll cover your tables for you.”

Her tone was decisive and left no room for protest. Not that Kylie wanted to. The thought of cool water was blissful. And she could finally take an aspirin while she was back there.

“You’ll do that for me?” she asked, gratefully. She only prayed that Sarah wouldn’t run off and tell Joe while she was back there.

“Of course,” Sarah replied, “And any tips from your tables are yours. Scout’s honor.”

She held up a solemn hand to swear by. Kylie smiled weakly. “Scout’s honor. Give me five minutes.”

After quickly pointing out her tables to Sarah, Kylie pushed weakly off the counter, her arm wobbling, threatening to falter under her own weight. Sarah started to reach out, then stopped herself. She asked, “Can you walk?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Kylie said, trying to sound more okay than she felt.

She shuffled to the washroom. Slowly. On top of not wanting to resurrect her chest pains, she felt terribly lightheaded. Her breaths were long and labored, like she had emphysema. Pulses of the rabid tingling sensation shot numbly up her legs with every elderly step, and she had to focus her whole mind on each individual footfall to make sure she didn’t keel over. She passed in sight of Cedric’s table, ahead of the little corridor leading to the washroom. If he saw her, Kylie didn’t notice.

She made it to the corridor and leaned against the wall for a moment to catch her breath. Stared pensively at the shamrock and “Fightin’ Irish” décor typical of all Philadelphia bars. Then she bent to retrieve her purse from her locker. God she needed aspirin. Her right hand still felt stiff, but she was able to flex her fingers again and turning the dial on the locker wasn’t an issue.

She entered the employee washroom and threw the switch, and when she turned to face the sink her blood iced over.

A ghost was staring at her from the mirror.

Its skin was gray. Ashen. Like a charcoal sketch of a young woman. Slate-gray wisps of hair dangled down low over its forehead, just above a pair of enormous, startlingly blue eyes that bored holes straight through Kylie and drilled her to the wall.

She stumbled back and gasped. Staring breathlessly at the mirror for a moment before realizing the ghost had leaped back with her. Its hand shot up to cover its pale, gaping mouth in tandem with Kylie’s own. And she realized with another icesplash of terror that the phantasm was her very own reflection.

Impossible. But impossible, too, to deny it.

Kylie’s skin and hair had turned gray.

Dazedly, she held her trembling hand up in front of the mirror. As if she had never encountered one before and wondered if the reflection would indeed copy her. It followed her every move, and when she touched the tip of her finger to the mirror to meet her carbon-paper doppelganger’s, she recoiled as though she’d pricked her finger on a needle.

Still staring at her reflection, she ran her hand through her gray hair. It felt brittle and broken-ended. Stiff, too, like she’d used too much hairspray. She moved her fingers down across her cheeks and brushed her lips, then slid her hand down along her throat. All gray as thunderheads. Some parts of her skin were grayer than others, dark veins and splotches on her arms, her throat, and the grayest parts were cold to the touch.

She felt sick. Obviously, but. Not like that. Lightheaded. Black curtains dancing at the edges of her disbelieving eyes. From the shock, the impossibility of it all. She leaned against the sink, lowering her head almost to the bottom of the basin. Her stiff right hand groped for the cold water handle. Maybe Sarah was right. Maybe it was ashes, or cigarette smoke. Maybe it would wash off. She hadn’t the slightest idea how she could’ve gotten so soiled, had no recollection of walking through a dense wall of cigarette smoke or falling face-first into an ashtray, but what else could it be?

After thoroughly soaking her face and running wet fingers through her hair- damn if it mussed, that was better than it being gray- she slowly rose from the sink, leaning precariously on the porcelain basin, and looked back into the mirror.

Her skin was still totally gray. Grayer than before, even. Like how rain darkens concrete, darkens stone.

Stone.

Her stomach dropped like lead at the realization.

She was turning to stone.

It made too much sense. The tightness in her chest, the inexplicable stiffening of her fingers, her limbs. The low, unsettling bruits trembling through her body like the shifting of tectonic plates… and now her flesh itself was turning gray. She was turning into a statue.

She swallowed tightly and backed away from the mirror. It was spinning. The whole room seemed to spin. She felt the door at her back and slumped down onto the cool tile floor as if she were falling into the sea with an anchor tied to her ankles and she sat there for awhile staring at her slowly petrifying hands.

Then she laughed. Actually laughed. A trifle hysterically, perhaps, but a laugh nonetheless.

A statue. Ridiculous. How completely ridiculous. It was something that could only happen in stories. Myths and fairy tales. Not in the real world, to real people. Real people didn’t get turned into statues.

You’re just sick, she thought, That’s all. No fairy tale curses. No magic spells. Those don’t exist. Only in books. You’re not turning into a statue, like the ones at the museum. That doesn’t happen in real life.

The more she tossed the idea around in her head, the sillier it seemed. Turning to stone was as likely as her turning into gold, or a frog. At least the former would take care of her rent, she thought wryly. It brought out a trace of a smile. The dark humor calming her just a bit.

Kylie massaged her temples, hard, like they were grindstones with which to mill her thoughts from the maelstrom of emotions swirling within her. So she wasn’t turning to stone. Now what?

Rent. Start there. Due tomorrow. Promise of eviction unless it was paid on time, in full, along with all her back-rent. And she was still short… how much? Over a hundred something. So no matter how sick she felt, she couldn’t leave.

Nor could she stay. Not in this condition. She wasn’t at all certain she could work through the odd malady, especially if another chest-quake hit her, but even if she could, nobody would want someone who was turn- someone who was sick, her rationality swiftly corrected- serving them food and drink. Plus, what if it was contagious? Graying skin. Graying hair. Was that contagious? Was it curable? No- she stopped herself. Mustn’t fall into that sort of panic. The symptoms were undeniably weird, but they had to be treatable, right? She’d worry about it later, after work.

Kylie rose to her feet again, shakily. Steadfastly refusing to look into the mirror as she splashed more water on her face, relishing its coolness. Then she unlocked the door and walked woodenly out of the washroom.

As she turned to exit the little hall and head back out to the barroom floor, Joe swung around the corner and intercepted her. He was a head shorter than her, a hundred and fifty pounds heavier, and bald as a stone. His face was drawn taut, the look of a man peeved at being interrupted from important business. Great.

When he saw her, his face tempered slightly. Just slightly. A minute thaw of the cheeks, at most. A quick, subtle recalculation. She knew what he was going to say before he even started speaking.

“Kylie. You feelin’ alright? Sarah said you didn’t look too good.”

“I’m good to work,” she replied, her heart picking up nervous speed, not quite racing because she didn’t have it in her anymore. Trotting, more like. Maybe loping.

“She said you’ve got a fever.”

“Just a little one,” Kylie said quickly, “It’s really just a headache. I just need to take an aspirin, that’s all.”

“Kylie,” Joe replied sternly, “Whatever the hell you’ve got going on is no headache. Can’t have you serving food like this. You look… sick.”

She lowered her head morosely. Stared down at her shoes. She couldn’t even think. Could see the eviction letter in her mind as clearly as if she were holding it in her hands.

“Joe, please,” she begged. Knowing already what his answer would be. Go home. The dive business was viciously competitive. The last thing Joe needed was a negative review on Yelp. Zero stars because of the sick waitress. Gray skin flakes in someone’s wing sauce. The beer was good and cheap, but the waitress turned into a statue. 2 stars.

She fumbled, sputtering over her words. “My rent…”

“I can’t help you, sweetie,” Joe said. She thought he sounded smarmy, but then his face really did thaw. He hefted out a sigh and said, “I can drive you to ReadyCare if you want, but you have to go home.”

She thought about that. Maybe she could go to a doctor. Frame it to her landlord as a medical emergency. Almost as soon as the thought occurred to her she shot it down. She was uninsured. Adding to her already sky-high mountain of debt was the last thing she needed. And the landlord probably wouldn’t care anyway. Grubby bastard. At this point, all she wanted to do was curl up in bed with a heat bottle, some saltines, and a glass of ginger ale, and try to sleep off the bizarre malady.

“No, that’s alright Joe,” she replied glumly. “Thanks anyway.”

“Go home,” he repeated, “Get some rest. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She slumped against the wall and watched Joe waddle back to his office. Then she unzipped her purse, retrieving a tiny water bottle and the blessed vial of aspirin. She took three. Meant to take them back in the washroom, but the sight of herself in the mirror had canceled out all rational thought. She chewed the pills and swallowed the powder with a swig of water. Her dad had told her that once before; if you ever think you’re having a heart attack, chew the aspirin, don’t swallow it.

She zipped her purse back up and sighed raggedly. Her joints ached. All of her muscles were stiff and sore. And there was the ever-present tingling sensation buzzing her skin. That was the most unsettling thing. The chest pain, that was stark terror, but at least she could identify it. She’d never experienced anything like the tingling before.

Jesus, Kylie, you’re like Nana now, she thought wryly. Ailments on top of ailments.

When she walked back out onto the barroom floor, she felt a little better. Aspirin worked fast. No pep in her step, but she wasn’t worried about keeling over now. She looked in the direction of Cedric’s table. Sarah was dropping off his sandwich. Leaning over the table, giving the man an eyeful of her bust. Despite how ill she felt, an arrow of jealousy shot through Kylie.

Sarah turned to leave him almost the same instant Kylie walked out. Strutting her hips expertly as she went. Her eyes lit up when she saw Kylie, and she trotted quickly over to her.

“He’s a hoot,” Sarah said, smiling, “Looked me right in the eyes like it was nothing. Totally immune to my ‘feminine charms.’”

Kylie looked at the ground. When she glanced back up she caught Cedric’s eye. She thought for a moment that he was staring after Sarah- and who wouldn’t?- but then she realized he wasn’t. He was looking at her. A strange expression on his face. Eyes wide. Mouth slightly agape. She didn’t blame him- your waitress suddenly changing color wasn’t an every day occurrence- and she felt a flush of embarrassment wash over her. But then she realized he wasn’t gawking at her. It was a shocked gasp of recognition.

She thought about going over and apologizing to him, but before she could think of anything to say she felt Sarah’s hand on her shoulder and she spun around to follow her, even though she could still feel Cedric’s gaze on her back as they went.

“How ya feelin’?” Sarah asked. If she’d noticed the mood of Kylie’s eyes change to monstrous green, she didn’t let on. Walking and talking, chewing her gum as she headed back to the bar for more drinks.

“Crummy. Joe’s sending me home.” Kylie replied dejectedly. She leaned against the bar again for support. The pain was dulled by the aspirin but her legs still felt stiff.

“Ah, nuts,” Sarah said. She turned to the bartender and rattled off a machine-gun litany of drinks so fast Kylie wondered how the guy kept up with her, but he started pouring right away and didn’t ask Sarah to repeat herself. Sarah didn’t even bother watching him. She blew a big, pink bubble and then promptly popped it. “Oh, before I forget- the tips!”

She fumbled around in her pocket- where the hell was she hiding pockets on those tights?- and withdrew a fistful of bills.

“Eighty-five. All yours.”

Kylie’s eyes widened like she were a child and Sarah was holding up the last candy bar on Halloween. Any lingering, juvenile jealousy she felt evaporated in an instant. It didn’t solve her crisis, not even close, but it was eighty-five bucks she didn’t have to worry about now. The remaining fifty-five… she’d figure it out somehow.

“Oh, Sarah,” she said giddily, totally unable to contain her joy, “Sarah, thank you!”

“I’ve still got our dreamboat back there, too, plus three of your other tables. If you’re well enough to come in tomorrow I’ll give you their tips then. If not, I’ll stop by and slip it under your door.”

“Sarah, I…”

Sarah held up her hand tenderly. “My word is my bond. Now go on home.”

“Thank you,” Kylie said, from the bottom of her heart. Her gratitude alone was enough to warm her a little, and she slowly made her way to the front door. Then she stumbled out of the bar and into the humid August evening.

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Click here to read Chapter Three.

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