A series: (3) At the bar, a werewolf

Sat in the corner, a werewolf. The barmaid cleaning glasses almost dropped them. They saw. Laughing, the wolf’s friend took a slobbery sip from the rest of his pint. The werewolf’s head bobbed and then a pinky-white human hand drew itself up and the wolf’s face fell into a palsy before disappearing into the air entirely. The men were in fits at the tired barmaid’s reaction. She found the humour though and started to chuckle herself.

“Good, int it?’ the former chuckled as the latter faked a roar.

“No need for bouncers anymore,” she agreed, “Just stand you at the door.”

The hysterics continued and she turned away, but not before she made unintentional eye contact with a man sitting one table behind the wolf and his friend.

It was needlessly prolonged, and she may have done a mini-take - she couldn’t recall for sure afterwards; embarrassment wipes the memory well - but she felt sure she recognised the eyes that had found her. She glanced away quickly, feeling strangely flustered. As the heat rose through her cheeks, her heart beating a little faster, she tried to picture the man in her mind, his features fuzzed around the edges, her mind trying to divert her to the stress that ran over her skin.

Chocolate brown hair, centre-parting, fringe thrown back carelessly. Sallow skin, hazel eyes: bright, alert, interested.

On trying to think where she had seen him before; she couldn’t. She wasn’t even sure if he definitely had. Maybe it was just because he had looked so different from the rest of the regular clientele. Maybe it was his alertness that had made her start. Unlike the others, his cheeks hadn’t been flushed red, his eyes weren’t beginning to shut, a gormless expression had not yet been tattooed upon his face. There was something else, though. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

“Claudia.”

A ninety-degree turn and tonight’s manager, Nicky, was on her left.

Tall and gangly, with a growing pudge of beer belly, Nicky was aged somewhere between twenty-nine and forty-nine. Dressing youthfully (as youthful as baggy jeans and chains still were), his face seemed to age a few years every time she saw him. He looked worse when he hadn’t shaved, which was the case on that night. His blonde hair was cropped; the same length all over which gave his head a kind of spherical appearance. A faded scar above his right eye, his skin was starting to show signs of wear and tear in other ways: his forehead had the faintest of static lines and he had a small patch of unhealed acne perched just above his left jawline. His blue-grey shirt was hanging open at the top, tie pushed under the right collar, and it was badly tucked into his hip-high jeans. Known for his painfully sarcastic humour, Claudia braced herself.

This time, he gave a forceful smile and: “I’m letting you home early; it’s dead in here and we can’t afford to keep throwing money at you all.”

Claudia pursed her lips indifferently, nodded and thanked him. “I’ll just cash off my tips,” she said as she turned on her heel. Bouncing towards the till, her hand already hip-deep in her pocket, fingers fumbling around the spare change, she momentarily forgot about the man at the corner-table. As she stuck her key onto the till, the cash drawer bouncing open and notes spilling out, she was unaware of his gaze as it stayed on her, analysing her every move. Even if she had been aware, he was too far away for her to make out the notebook he had open on the table. A6, it wasn’t noticeable had you been at the adjacent table. As she tucked a blonde piece of frizz behind her ear, his pencil moved across the scratched surface. As she fixed her hairband, it continued to write. The till drawer shut with a smack, and she straightened up, mentally counting up her extra earnings. With a similar, smaller snap, the notebook closed, and disappeared firmly into a black felt pocket. As she waved goodbye to her colleagues, none of them she was particularly close with but all of them she had an unwilling bond with regardless, he stood up abruptly from his chair, causing a hrmph from the man seated a few along from him. As she went through to the back room to grab her bright yellow A-line jacket from the peg - slightly ostentatious, but mustard yellow was one of her favourite shades - he made his way to the door, walking smoothly, almost mechanically. Bunchies in, yellow jacket fastened, she looked like a twenty-year-old imitating someone a quarter of her age, but it was a look she suited. Stuffing the notes into her pocket, she walked towards the bar doors. A movement just outside them caught her eye, but it was too brief to make her think anything more. Left hand on the door, she turned to say bye as she pushed the door open, cold air wrapping itself around her face. With a swing, she left. And, just like that, she was gone.