stay there all day, but Jean would notice her absence soon enough and come to find out why she was slacking off. Reaching into the freezer, she pulled out a hunk of frozen meat wrapped in plastic. It was wedged in there, and the sound of the icicles squealing against each other as it scraped against the side of the freezer made her wince. It was heavy; she held it tightly with one trembling arm as she slammed the lid of the freezer closed with the other.
The meat started to stick to her forearms as she walked up the corridor. She passed Will’s room. The light inside was on, but the Do Not Disturb sign was still plastered to his door. Rose dropped the hunk of meat down on the kitchen bench.
“Thanks,” Jean said from the stove; her white shirt was damp with sweat. Rose couldn’t imagine trying to cook on a day this hot.
“Look at her go.” Jean pointed her chin toward the bar, a smile playing on her lips.
Mia was flirting with Bazza outrageously. She was leaning against the taps, literally twirling her hair. It was almost laughable, but Bazza was eating it up.
“I’ll give them a few minutes,” she said to Jean and went over to the bin. It wasn’t completely full yet, but Rose didn’t really want to go back to the bar. It was only a matter of time before Frank asked her about the cadetship, and she’d have to tell him that she hadn’t got it. She didn’t want pity, not from him or anyone else. Plus, the longer you left the bin, the more likely it was that you’d leak foul-smelling bin juice down the corridor. She tied the black plastic rubbish bag into a knot at the top, then slid it out of the bin; it was already heavy.
Holding it in one hand, as far away from her body as possible, she walked quickly down the corridor. The back door to Eamon’s, past the keg room, was propped open with a brick. They always left it like that when the pub was open. People went into the back alley for cigarettes sometimes, or, very rarely, for make-out sessions. Rose couldn’t imagine anything less romantic. The concrete was cracked and uneven, and the large metal Dumpster stank, even when it was empty. The thing had probably never been cleaned. It smelled like sweet, rotting rubbish and made her want to gag. There was no light out there except for the streetlights around the front and the light that spilled from the open door down the four cement steps. Rose let the bag slide down the steps next to her, then picked it up and hurled it into the Dumpster. She heard it hit the bottom with a heavy thump like a bag of flour, or a dead body. Rose wanted to laugh. It would be great for her career if she found a dead body out the back here, but unluckily for her, it hadn’t happened yet. Although, Jean had told her she’d found a dead cat in there once. She’d said that when she picked it up it was as stiff as a brick. Rose slapped her hands together and walked back inside.
As she passed Will’s door, her curiosity overwhelmed her. She knocked, wondering if he was even inside. The squeak of the bedsprings told her that he was. She thought about running. It was too late. He opened the door a crack, smiling slightly when he saw her.
“Housekeeping,” she said, sarcastically, trying to look past his head into the room.
“I’m fine for now, thanks.” He smiled and went to shut the door in her face.
“Are you sure?” she said, before he could.
“Yes.” His smile widened. “You know, I can’t decide if you are trying to be very helpful, or if I’ve done something to piss you off.”
She blinked. Usually she was the confrontational one.
“Just trying to be helpful,” she said, shooting him a huge, fake grin, then turning to walk away. He might be the weirdest guy she’d ever met. The way he’d hidden his bedroom from her, it was like he didn’t want her to see past him, like he was hiding something. She imagined his room was filled with porcelain dolls and snorted back a laugh as she walked back to the bar. The dolls had only started appearing when he arrived. It was definitely possible, although not very likely. Journalist Uncovers Weirdo Doll Lover Tormenting Town. Now, that would be a good story.
“I’m seeing something really special here,” Mia said, staring at the leftover foam in Bazza’s empty beer glass.
“Really?” He leaned forward. She showed him, and his face screwed up as he looked inside. She noticed the way the light lit up the fine hair of his eyelashes.
She leaned closer. “See that line of foam across there.” She pointed at the line near the top of the glass.
“Yeah.”
“That’s your heart line.”
“Really?”
“Look.” She let her voice go really quiet so he’d get closer. “It’s unbroken.”
“Is that good?” He looked up at her.
“It’s really good. It means you’re going to find love. Soon.”
He looked between the line and her. She grabbed an empty glass and flicked on the tap, smiling at him, trying to beg him with her eyes to ask her out. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Thanks,” he said, when she put his beer in front of him. “I wonder what this one will say.”
He left her a tip and went back to his seat next to Frank. Her heart sank a little bit. Had he seen what she was doing and not asked her out anyway? She wasn’t sure if her advance had been rejected or not, but either way she could feel the sting.
“You know, I think he does like you,” Rose said, coming up next to her. “He looks at you like you’re beautiful—he was doing it last night at the gas station too.”
“What, like that?” Mia said, and they both looked to Frank, who was staring at Rose, his eyes soft.
“Yeah,” Rose said and turned away defensively.
Mia sighed and propped herself up on the bar. “Bazza’s dumb but so hot. It’s the perfect combination,” she said wistfully. “I think he’d make a great husband.”
“You’re kidding, right?” Rose said with disgust.
“Nope,” she said, then flicked Rose with the wet, dirty rag in her hand. It left a gray smear on her thigh.
“Yuck!”
“Streets of Fire” came on and Mia started humming along under her breath. She didn’t understand why Jean didn’t play a more varied mix of music, but she didn’t question it. If Jean wanted to listen to Bruce Springsteen every single night, then that was her choice. It had irritated her at first, but after a while she’d begun to enjoy knowing exactly what to expect out of her evenings. Unlike Rose, she quite liked working at Eamon’s. When she was here, she could just focus on each task: pouring beers, serving meals, mopping the floor, and not worry about the past or the future.
Wringing out the cloth in the sink, she watched the gray water squeezing out from the fibers. She rinsed it, letting the water absorb, wrung it out again and then hung it over the tap to dry. The detergent and grit made the skin on her hands feel tender. She wiped them on her shorts, trying to push herself to remember to put on hand cream before she went to sleep. She was always forgetting, and her flesh sometimes got so dry that the skin around her fingernails would crack.
She
