Page 58 of Misery
The routine is automatic, muscle memory taking over.
She falls into the rhythm like she never left.
I watch her pour drinks, make change, smile and repeat.
I take my usual spot at the end of the bar.
Where I can seeeverything.
Where I've sat for months watching her without her knowing.
Watching her fake being okay.
Watching her hands shake when she thought no one was looking.
But now she knows I'm here.
Knows I'm watching.
Glances my way between customers, small smiles that make my chest tight.
These aren't the fake smiles she gives customers.
These are real, just for me.
"Beer?" she asks, like this is normal, like we didn't fundamentally change everything last night.
"Yeah."
She pours it perfectly.
There’s no excess foam and she sets it in front of me with fingers that brush mine deliberately.
That small touch shoots through me like lightning.
The first hour passes without an issue.
She ends up actually relaxing.
Her shoulders drop from around her ears, laughs genuinely at someone's terrible joke and argues playfully with one of the regulars—Big Tom—about baseball.
It’s almost normal, almost like before.
I watch her work, but notice the differences.
She's still beautiful—that kind of effortless beauty that makes men stupid.
But there's something different now.
An awareness in how she moves.
She knows where everyone is without looking, keeps her back to the wall.
Always has an exit in sight.
The lessons trauma gave her.
Then Jaycee, one of the clubhoras, who also bartends here, comes from the back. "Delivery for you, Elfe."
