Looking at the ceiling of my new room made my eye twitch. I knew the popcorn finish was the culprit, but I couldn’t quite decide if it was due to it being such a shit design choice or because even the goddamn ceiling had to constantly drive home that this wasn’t home. All my things were still boxed up, and while I knew on some level that I would eventually need to unpack, it felt wrong—like I was giving in too early—to do it for the moment.

It was a testament to just how badly I needed to get out of there that, despite having literally fuck all to do besides stare at the godforsaken popcorn ceiling, I stayed awake for nearly hour after Mother and Father stopped moving in their room down the hall before making my move. I’d cautiously checked out earlier how squeaky the window and its frame were and deemed them sufficiently quiet so long as I took my time. A not insignificant blessing, considering it was my lone escape path that didn’t run directly and risk my jailers waking.

My wallet and jacket in hand, I slipped out onto the fire escape and made my way down as quietly as I could. I had only the barest notion of the neighbors cobbled together from studying a map of Brockton Bay and my own observations as Father drove the three of us into the area earlier that day, but despite the deck being stacked against me, I still made it: La Flor. A hole in the wall bar I’d almost missed noticing that wasn’t so far away it was unwalkable. The sort of bar that, I hoped, would only give my fake ID a cursory inspection.

The bouncer gave me a vaguely suspicious look while examining my ID, but my well-practiced nonchalance and familiarity with the process for entering a dive bar won me passage. It was only after entering, however, that I realized a fundamental truth that was decidedly not obvious from its exterior: La Flor was a lesbian bar. It was the only reasonable explanation for the complete lack of men.

The bar was lively enough that my entry didn’t earn me much attention, but it wasn’t so packed that I would go unnoticed if I continued to stand gawking just inside the entrance. I forced myself to start moving and, abruptly far more unsure of myself than I had been a few seconds prior, planted myself at an empty spot at the bar that wasn’t immediately next to someone.

Fortunately the barkeep was busy for a minute mixing someone else’s drink, so I had enough time to try to reclaim some semblance of my earlier confidence by the time she approached and took my order. I downed my first drink quickly and my second not long after, and while I knew I was going to hate the state of my wallet in the morning, I ordered a third with the intent to draw it out and savor it.

“Courtesy of the lady at the corner,” the barkeep unexpectedly informed me as she passed me my Metropolitan. I blinked stupidly in response before shooting said lady a questioning look. She quickly looked away, suddenly deeply enthralled by the warm amber of her beer, and my lips split into a grin. I’d never had a woman flirt with me before, though then again, I’d never snuck into a lesbian bar before either. It was probably just the alcohol beginning to poison my veins and my good sense, but the warm flush that elicited in me was unmistakable.

It was definitely the alcohol that made me think, When in Rome, and move to join her.

“Thank you for the drink,” I said as I slipped onto the stool next to her. Too formal. Fuck, stiff much?

I floundered for something better to say, but she beat me to the punch, revealing she—thankfully—was on the same level of awkward as me. “Uh, hello? I, uh, just— What I mean to say—” Her grip on her beer tightened, a flush finding its way onto her cheeks that looked lovely in contrast with her long, blond hair. “Do you come here often?”

The way she rushed out her only complete sentence made my grin threaten to grow to manic levels, but I kept a lid on it. This was too entertaining to risk scaring her off. “First time, actually. I’m new in town.”

For some inexplicable reason, she looked tenser at that statement. If she clutched her beer any harder, I feared she might very well shatter the glass. “Heh. Well, whatever shit you’ve seen? It gets worse.”

Okay, wow. And she was still crazy on edge. Maybe, a little light ribbing would get her to loosen up? “You’re really bad at flirting, aren’t you?” I remarked with a small laugh before lifting my cocktail for a sip, hoping the sight of me enjoying my drink might be good, since she paid for it.

Or not. “I should go,” she blurted, her face practically aflame as she slapped money on the counter for her drinks. “I’m sorry, but this was a mistake.”

Her absence left a hollow feeling in my gut, and after a few minutes of toughing it out while quietly sipping at my Metropolitan alone, I decided to cut my losses, chugged the damn thing and her abandoned beer to boot, and stalked somewhat unsteadily towards the door.

This goddamn city, man.