Unreciprocated
By Kellyann Ye
A man walks into a bar.
His hair is streaked with powdered silver and dark splotches of blood, so the original blond is hardly visible. His steps shake the iron blades and wooden amulets around his waist and wrists. When he slaps two coins down on the stained counter, salt grains fall from beneath his fingernails.
The barmaid totters over – all the alcohol in this place means at least some goes towards soothing the throats of its workers. He doesn’t speak in reply to her sultry, “What’ll you be having tonight, milord?”, only jerks his head towards the back and then shoves the coins forward.
Any other day, and this would not happen. Any other day, he would not be here, alone in this seedy room with corners billowing colored smoke and floorboards smelling of sulfur. Any other day, Damien and his horse would not be dead in the hills two miles south of this town, would not be rotting in the setting sun with flies picking at their skin.
And so, when the barmaid slides his drink across to him and lingers with her deep red lips and deep red dress, he does not thank her, and he does not reciprocate – as he should, and as he could.
He hardly looks up when she flicks a polished nail against his glass with a clink, half-lifting his eyebrows over disinterested eyes because that’s all he can manage right now. Halves. Half-awake. Half-numb. Half the bandits and their pet demons let escape.
Half his heart lost in the hills.
By Kellyann Ye
A man walks into a bar.
His hair is streaked with powdered silver and dark splotches of blood, so the original blond is hardly visible. His steps shake the iron blades and wooden amulets around his waist and wrists. When he slaps two coins down on the stained counter, salt grains fall from beneath his fingernails.
The barmaid totters over – all the alcohol in this place means at least some goes towards soothing the throats of its workers. He doesn’t speak in reply to her sultry, “What’ll you be having tonight, milord?”, only jerks his head towards the back and then shoves the coins forward.
Any other day, and this would not happen. Any other day, he would not be here, alone in this seedy room with corners billowing colored smoke and floorboards smelling of sulfur. Any other day, Damien and his horse would not be dead in the hills two miles south of this town, would not be rotting in the setting sun with flies picking at their skin.
And so, when the barmaid slides his drink across to him and lingers with her deep red lips and deep red dress, he does not thank her, and he does not reciprocate – as he should, and as he could.
He hardly looks up when she flicks a polished nail against his glass with a clink, half-lifting his eyebrows over disinterested eyes because that’s all he can manage right now. Halves. Half-awake. Half-numb. Half the bandits and their pet demons let escape.
Half his heart lost in the hills.