Late-night intermission, at the bar: Sonya C & Open
In the short walk from the parking lot to the jewel-green barstool standing before black bar, Sonya had earned herself a chatter of teeth. Having been in the car all day, stuffed in next to suitcases, boxes, and fast food wrappers, she wasn't dressed for the weather in gray tank and cropped jeans, but rather, for comfort. And if the goosebumps that rose on bare arms like gold gilding ornate frame weren't enough, well, she was pretty sure she still smelled like stale fries and grease stuck to wax. She daubed at her face with the collar of her shirt before she pushed through the door and that was going to have to suffice. Her hair was up, if messy, and the few spilled-over curls along her neck weren't enough to dampen the cold as it seeped over her.
She was too hungry to care. She'd seen the sign from the road, this close to her destination—Repose—and, figuring a small town wouldn't have much along its main crawl this late to eat and unwilling to wait for the crack of dawn and the runny yolk of the sun, this was where she'd ended up. Of course, even with teeth clacking together, she was able to see 'roadhouse' was a word that could be loosely interpreted.—The red-soaked grandeur sotting the creaking vintage was eye-catching, and the woman and men just dispersing from the stage much more so. Plus, she so wasn't about to get back in the car. Even if they didn't serve actual food, she'd have a drink or something before she wedged herself back into the hell of her car.
She rolled her ankles once she was atop a stool, awaiting the arrival of her Manhattan, and she held her lip between her teeth in an effort to stop the knattering of cold-jittered enamel.