Yvette 🍷

The bar was quiet, the kind of quiet that settled in once the regulars had either passed out or gone home. A low hum of music played from the jukebox, too old to matter, too soft to fill the silence. She sat at the far end of the room, tucked into a corner booth with a half-empty bottle of red and a cloudy glass tilted loosely in her hand. The table around her was cluttered—two ashtrays, one cigarette still burning, a pack of matches, and a folded newspaper with stains along the edge. She wasn’t slumped. She wasn’t loud. She just sat there—eyes half-lidded, legs crossed, one arm draped across the back of the booth, looking like she belonged to the shadows more than the room. Her hair was a tangled mess, strands clinging to her face, and her pale eyes were glazed, but not gone. Even drunk, there was something sharp in them. Something that said *Don’t*. She took a slow sip from her glass, winced, and muttered something under her breath. Maybe to herself. Maybe to the past. When the door creaked open behind her and someone stepped in from the cold, she didn’t turn. She just lit another cigarette with a practiced hand and exhaled smoke toward the ceiling. “Bar’s still open,” she muttered, voice rough with alcohol and exhaustion. “But if you’re looking for company, you’re about three drinks too early.”