The Bar

It is the type of bar that hasn’t been updated since the 30’s. Rather than updating with the times, the owners just waited for it to become popular again. You could still smell the gentle aroma of cigar smoke. You know that these walls have seen some things. The martini glass was sweating on the bar top. A telltale sign that I have been sitting here nursing this thing. Not a sign that anyone else seemed to notice, even the bartender. I’ve made it a personality trait to blend into the background. Younger me would have laughed in your face had you told me that one day I would be grateful for it.

But I am. It’s made me millions. It’s something that cannot be taught. Rather, it is a gift you are born with, or so I was told by my mentor after they had scooped me up off the streets at 18. I had just graduated from high school and was kicked out of my parents’ house. They had fulfilled their obligations to me and had met me at the door with a backpack full of my things. I was wandering through town, kicking rocks down the sidewalk, when the car pulled up beside me. I didn’t have much care for my life, no prospects, no family, and no idea where I was going to lay my head that night. He offered a nod, and I got in, not knowing what that man would be to me someday.

Average was the only word that described me throughout my school years. Average grades, average performance, average height and weight. They called me Average Annie; none of them even knew my real name. Kids can be so cruel. That was the point when I realized that going unnoticed was the best way to navigate the remainder of those years. A skillset I had already learned at home. Acting as a mouse was the only thing that had brought me peace.

I snickered to myself. Mouse is the codename I picked at my second graduation. It was supposed to be a rebirth, a metamorphosis of sorts. The reality was that it was simply me accepting and embracing all those things I had despised about myself over the years. Anyone who mattered now knew me by that name only. All the other names were just fronts that held those millions. I am the richest person in this city right now, and still not a single person knows my name.

I take a sip of the drink as I fall into the periphery of the bartender while he is serving the couple sitting a few seats over. It’s calculated; everything that I do is. All he notes is that the glass has liquid and that I am drinking from it, not the length of time that it’s been in front of me. People don’t notice those details. I do, and it’s what gives me the edge every single time.

I know that the couple are getting their first night out since their child was born. I can tell by the bags under the woman’s eyes, the slight slouch in the man’s demeanour. They’re tired. He’s trying to enjoy his drink, while she sips a soda and lime. It was his suggestion to stop for an after-supper drink. She keeps checking her phone for texts from the sitter and occasionally pulls her top up, trying to contain herself from spilling out of her pre-pregnancy dress. They’ll leave within the hour so she can get back, feed the babe, and relieve herself of the mounting pressure.

The group of three men in the corner work at a law firm. Somewhere within walking distance, there are water stains on the suede shoes of one from the puddles in the streets. They’re grunts, haven’t worked their way into the upper echelon of their firm yet. They keep squeezing each other’s shoulders in an act of solidarity. The one in the booth seat had a rough day, his tie a little looser than the others. Suede shoes keeps visiting the bar and delivering the rounds, the waitress stopped serving them after the third tried to cop a feel.

The waitress. Oh, that poor thing. This is the second shift of her day. Sensible shoes that don’t quite match the perfectly curated outfit that she wears. Her smiles don’t quite reach her eyes. Home life isn’t great, but she will make it out. She has the perseverance to do so. Every drink is served with perfect timing. Looking through her eyelashes at the single fellas and avoiding eye contact with the coupled ones, addressing the woman first. She surveys the room like a hawk and likely sees more than anyone else in the room, next to me.

Reading people, their body language, the subtle shifts in energy. They say that it is a trauma response. My mentor only sharpened that blade for me. Ten years after meeting him, I sit in this bar waiting to wield that weapon. My mark hasn’t come in yet, but he will soon enough. I’ve been watching him for weeks, and his routine is as predictable as the clock on the wall transitioning from 7:59 to 8:00. Most would think coming in earlier would be a recipe for being noticed. But people notice new faces, not ones that could be the face of every generic person. Dark hair, somewhere between black and brown, straight and reaching just past my shoulders. Muted brown eyes, thin lips, pale skin. All wrapped up in an understated burgundy dress and black pumps. I emulate generic, and that is how I managed to follow him around for weeks, remaining unnoticed.

The bartender returns, bringing the bill to the couple, earning another sip for me, about time for me to start my ritual check-in with myself. I draw a deep breath in through my nose, releasing it with a gentle sigh. My nervous system is calm. I close my eyes and scan my body, no pain or stiffness. I flip open the top of my clutch, and everything is exactly where I placed it. The lipstick knife, the perfume bottle mace. Things I have never needed before, my body is a weapon enough. Today, my body could not be in better shape to finish a job. The couple exits their seats and moves towards the door, passing my mark as he enters at the same time. Predictable.

I sit there, waiting for him to complete his routine. He takes off his coat and places it over the back of the bar chair. Centre stage to the bartender, he assumes it helps to get him drinks quickly, and drink he does. He waves down the bartender with two fingers before even taking a seat. The bartender nods in acknowledgment and takes the whiskey down off the shelf, not the top, but not the bottom either. An old-fashioned. He usually knocks back two before slowing down on the orders. They say that it is the drink of gentlemen; I say it’s a drink that dulls the senses. Great for me, not great for him tonight. He doesn’t sit in the chair while the bartender begins pouring. Instead, he makes his way to my end of the bar to head behind me to the washroom for his ritual relief before he begins his spirited night. That’s where they will find him at closing, long after I have left and made my way back to the Ritz. I’ll probably be neck deep in a bubble bath.

I sink a little into that daydream, knowing that it’ll be a little while before I can make my move, and until then, I get to watch. The nights here go the same, though, and I am confident in that, having watched it so many times over the past weeks. This little daydream was a distraction enough; I didn’t hear his footsteps behind me as he was returning to his seat from the washroom. In fact, I only felt the gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned to stare my mark right in the face. This isn’t supposed to happen, I’m not supposed to be seen.

“Have we met before?” his eyes search mine.

“I don’t think so.” Internally, I am panicking. Externally, I could have been mistaken for a statue. I give no hint of recognition.

“Oh, I know, Annie! From high school!” He says, giving me a little wink. The dread washes over me hotter than the water in the bath I was daydreaming about.

I’ve been made.