She rushed behind the bar, serving drinks almost as fast as she took the orders. She was short, blonde, and well-formed. At 5’2” the bar looked as though it would swallow her, but she commanded it. I waited for her to bring my order and when she did, I told her to keep the change. She said, “Thanks,” then returned to mixing and pouring drinks.
While I hated Arawn, Farrah seemed to live for his destruction. She viewed him the same as the barflies that she was forced to serve drinks, food, and listen to their awful lies. She saw Arawn as that same bullshitter that would endlessly pitch lousy flirtations at her. While she could do nothing to the bar clients she was forced to smile at for tips, she could unleash all her pent rage on Arawn.
I found my way under the covers and kissed her stomach trying to pique her interest. As I was moving south, I heard her question, “Why don’t we have a fireplace?”
“Because we’re poor,” I answered.
“We’re not poor. That’s just your excuse not to get a new apartment,” Farrah answered laughing.
Look, we’re not as poor as we were when we met, but we’re not rich enough to be arbitrarily burning things for ambience.