Candy at the Bar

Candy sits at the counter of the posh hotel bar, eyes fixed on her untouched cocktail; her finger drumming on the dark mahogany. She is dolled up in a short skirt, red lipstick, and dark mascara.

“The first time is a bitch, but you get used to it,” Molly had said. “Most of the clients are good, first class.”

The bar door opens abruptly. Startled, she fixes her gaze on the glass while the barman watches—he knows.

“You have to follow your dream,” her granny used to say. “Whatever the cost. You do what you have to do.”

Her purse hangs from the back of the stool. That’s the signal: red purse. He is going to come to her. No need to look at the door. But still, she looks.

All of a sudden, an old woman takes the stool beside her. “Mum! What are you -” but the images hit her.

Candy sees the inside of a hotel room: her dress on a chair, a pack of cigarettes on a desk. The scene changes: another hotel room, a line of cocaine on the bedside table and muffled laughers.

And it’s all gone. She is in the bar again. She looks for the old woman, but she is not there. Of course she is not there.

The bar door opens. It’s him. Candy knows it’s him; no need to look. She grabs her red purse, hides it behind her back and walks toward the door. He doesn’t even see her. He is scanning the room above her head. She smells cologne on him as she passes by.

And she is out in the street. The smoke from the factory paints the night grey. Horns blare in the air.

Candy spies a waitress in the restaurant on the other side of the road. Her hair is grey and oily. She shuffles from table to table, shoulders hunched, eyes empty, mouth set in a forced grin - perhaps a desperate one.

“What else, Candy?” Molly had said. “What else?”

Candy turns. Her hand rests on the bar door. She pushes it open; music and laughter spill out. Then she withdraws her hand, only to raise it again, trembling, on the handle.

A taxi stops by. A couple gets out. They smile at Candy. She smiles back.