“What can I get you?”

It was a phrase she uttered countless times a night. Working as a bartender and occasionally waitressing at a little bar called Karma, Lyric Mackenzie was used to dead-end jobs. It was there, after all, that she met the most interesting people. She was a Jack-Of-All-Trades of sorts; she was whatever she needed to be at that particular moment in time. She was a bartender; a waitress; a secretary (though she found office-work horribly mundane).

As for tonight, it had been a long one; customers had kept her busy. A dull singer occupied the stage on which Lyric had performed a handful of times, when the owner of the bar was in a pinch for entertainment. Alas, that was her true profession – no, it was more than that. At the risk of sounding cheesy, it was her passion. On a first-come-first-serve basis, she battled with other musicians in the same position to play paid gigs in ten and fifteen minute slots in lounges and bars around the city. Indeed, it was a difficult business – thus why she kept other jobs. It was an insurance plan of sorts, even if it wasn’t a very good one.

She was the last employee left in the bar. It was often like that. She and Daniel, the owner, were responsible for closing up. After she ushered out the last of the patrons and tidied up the tables, Lyric seated herself on a bar stool and pulled a wad of cash and a handful of coins out of her pocket. She slapped it on the counter and, while Daniel swept, went through the ritual of counting her tips. She sighed deeply once she was finished. “Thirty-one fifty.” She muttered to herself - waitresses made better tips; she knew that for a fact.

“Alright, Dan. I’m gonna get going. I’ll see you tomorrow?” She slid off the stool and removed the short black apron she wore. Dan nodded absent-mindedly, not looking up from his work. He was curt at times, but kind in general, and he paid her well.

“Lyric!” Somebody – undoubtedly Daniel – called to her as she was pressing her hands against the cold glass of the door.

“Yeah?” She whipped her head around to scan the empty bar behind her, the severe-cut, thick brown bangs obscuring her vision as usual. Through the hair, she made out Dan’s silhouette, broomstick in hand. In his free hand, the one extended towards her, was a very familiar handbag. Stepping forward and lifting the strap from his hands, she spoke. “What would I do without you?” Here she winked. With that she left, slinging the strap of her bag over her shoulder and calling “See you tomorrow!” as she exited.




When she left, it was late, but the city was nonetheless abuzz. Streetlights were illuminated, lighting her way down the sidewalk; red patent wedges made dull clicking noises colliding with the concrete beneath them. She sported black wide-leg jeans that rode high on her waist, with crisp pleats down the front. Her shirt was a simple white t-shirt; short sleeve, v-neck. Her garb was simple; she preferred to accessorize. Indeed, her shoes were quite the punch of colour, and on her wrist she sported a rather sizeable red bangle.


Wandering the streets, she felt as she always did – as though she were waiting for something. That expectant sensation, as though something were supposed to happen and she just had to wait it out, wasn’t uncommon. Ever since she was a child, she had felt like she was just killing time – maybe it was why she was so restless. She had friends who had five year plans and ten year plans; destinations. She had neither. She was floating, taking night courses and working on finishing some mundane degree in which she had no interest; her parents had no problem with her floating through life at the moment – hanging onto the hope that she’d quit chasing musical dreams and get a real job – so long as she had something to show for all that ‘free time’.

Not to say that she resented her family in any way, nor her Irish parents’ strong values. They believed in education, structure, responsibility, their hippie days long behind them. What was left to show of those days was the names of their four children, all inspired by music; Tanner, Presley, Lyric and Harper. Tanner was the responsible one; Presley the bad boy, and Lyric was...in truth, she hadn’t quite figured herself out yet. But needless to say, being surrounded by males throughout her childhood – save her mother, who hadn’t been one for ‘female bonding’ – had influenced her.

Meandering down the sidewalk, Lyric lost track of the street names and building numbers – it was almost deserted, almost, as she ducked down a one-way street and emerged on the other side. She was careful to take well-lit pathways, at least for the majority of her trek home. That was why the presence of a figure leaning against a building just ahead was unexpected. Not shocking, no; but unexpected. It didn’t startle her, and why should it? She was out at this time of night, couldn’t other people be?

What did startle her, however, was the sudden, obnoxious ringing of a phone. She realized immediately that it was her own, and that it was buried somewhere inside her purse. She slipped the strap off her shoulder and began rummaging through it; unfortunately, the dim light from the streetlight wasn’t enough, and she didn’t find it right away. Consequently, the girl became increasingly desperate for the incessant ringing to stop; as she stopped walking and began devoting all her energy to locating the phone, the result was her bag slipping out of her hands and the contents emptying on the sidewalk.

She wasn’t usually that clumsy. Forgetful, but bless her, that was the artist in her. But of course, it had to happen near to the sole occupant of this particular street – other than herself, of course – standing in front of what appeared to be a hotel.

She groaned as she knelt down on the sidewalk, her purse in one hand, and began to pick up the contents of her bag. A small package of tissues, lipglosses, a hairbrush, her wallet; scraps of paper strewn across the sidewalk that she picked up anyway. Halfway through cleaning up the mess she made, Lyric realized that her phone wasn’t amongst the contents of her bag – it was in the back pocket of her jeans. Again, she groaned, and pulled it out of her pocket, taking a break from picking up her belongings.

“Hello?” Who could be calling her at this time of night, anyway?