The Old Shakespeare - chapter one
Snow falls on the rooftops of rows upon rows of monochrome buildings, the monotony broken only by a singular, white-topped evergreen draped in long strands of blinking holiday lights. It sits crookedly, propped against the frosty window of a hole-in-the-wall pub. An off-kilter sign identifies it as the Old Shakespeare.
Despite its bold claims, the pub doesn’t quite live up to its namesake.
The walls had once been painted some cheery color, though time has faded it, like everything else in this town, into gray dullness. The countertop, stacked high with cloudy glasses still sloshing with brown beer, sticks out like a sore thumb in an otherwise uninteresting space. Several round tables fill the rest of the cramped room, chairs strewn around haphazardly like the arrangement had been delegated to a five-year-old with a keen eye for chaos.
The door is pushed open with a loud thud . The chill of the biting winter air immediately settles around the shoulders of any nearby patrons like a particularly cold blanket.
The visitor is a particularly tall gentleman with a shocking mop of untidy black hair and a warmth — surrounding him like a cloud of buzzing bees — that brings out a certain degree of interest in those who catch sight.
He steps forward, brow furrowing as he takes in the humble establishment.
Lily sets down the threadbare rag, clutched in her hand a moment back and now tossed onto the table unceremoniously, her knuckles relaxing for the first time in what feels like hours. She smoothes down her skirt — black, pleated, too short for her comfort — and fixes the guest with what she hopes is a passable smile.
“Hi,” she says cheerily. “Can I help you?”
The man startles, eyes raking over the scene before him — a scratched-up table, a wet, gray rag, and a redheaded barmaid in a daring outfit — before offering her a polite smile.
When he smiles, Lily can make out the shine in his eyes — hazel — behind his glasses — rectangular and lopsided on the bridge of his nose. He touches the middle of the frames with the tip of his middle finger, pushing it upward.
The man opens his mouth to speak, and the odd fluttering in her navel passes quietly.