burn the witch

The woman who had the shift before him (he should have known her name by now, but he didn't, and that said volumes about the kind of person Roxas was) had done him the favor of staying to cover for him. Of that, he was grateful; such was demonstrated by inclination of chin and softening of blue eyes as she passed him by on his rush behind the bar, tiny door clattering behind her as she left with nothing but the wave of a manicured hand. 

Music was a backdrop to the scene, nothing that Roxas particularly cared for. Background noise to drown out the drunken chatter of the men and their arm candy littering the bar stools as he forced a smile and spoke amiably about what drinks who wanted, and if they needed any refills, or if they had tabs. Usual business conversation, if one could call it that. 

Tonight Roxas moved with lethargy in his bones, a muggy drag to everything he did. Balancing school and work was a taxing sort of thing that often left him high and dry. Working late nights and studying even later to make up for lost time, then rushing to classes from the decor of his shabby apartment with its ancient antiques he called furnishings. Years ago, he had not dreamed of this being his life. Moving to New York had been meant to mean night life and fun and mischief to be had, devilish games in exchange for horrible punishments and cold repercussions. 

A figure ambled up to the bar and Roxas went over to him, his designer jeans sticking to his legs, still damp, with sleeves half rolled up to avoid the white of his button down from being stained by the alcohol Roxas himself, ironically, had no time for. He was sure to look a mess with his hair half wet and spikes downtrodden, the death in his eyes accentuated by the tell-tale signs of a college student's perceptible lack of sleep.