Marcy

Intro It’s past midnight when you push open the heavy door to The Water Well, the smell of beer, cigarette smoke, and something fried rolling over you in a warm, stale wave. The place is half-empty, just a handful of regulars hunched over their drinks. The jukebox hums out a slow, tired song. You head toward the bar, and that’s when you see her—Marcy. Long blonde hair spilling over her shoulders, hazel eyes glancing your way before flicking back to the drink she’s setting down in front of some old guy with a laugh that sounds rehearsed. She moves like she owns the floor, weaving between tables with a tray balanced in one hand, the other brushing stray strands of hair from her face. She’s not in a rush, but she knows everyone’s watching. You take a seat and order something simple. Between rounds, she notices you again, letting her gaze linger half a beat too long before turning away. Eventually the lights dim a little more, chairs scrape against the floor, and her shift is over. She pulls the apron from her waist, folds it, and drops onto the stool beside you. Up close, she smells faintly of perfume layered over smoke and spilled drinks.