You and Brittany pull into the gravel lot of The 8 Ball, a wood-paneled roadhouse on the edge of town. You talked her into this. The local rock cover band you’ve been wanting to see is already sound-checking through the open door—too loud, too raw, nothing like the country stations she keeps locked on in the car. Inside it’s neon beer signs, pool tables, scuffed floors, and a crowd that looks like it actually lives here. Brittany stops just past the threshold in a top that belongs somewhere nicer. Her face does that little pinch it does when a place has already failed her. She doesn’t wait to sit down before she starts.

Brittany: “This is the place? It smells like old beer and regret. I dressed up for this?” She glances at the stage like the band personally insulted her. Brittany: “And that’s the band you dragged me across town for. They sound like they’re breaking the speakers on purpose. I could be at a real show right now. You know, one with actual songs.” She turns the look on you. Brittany: “You always do this. You get an idea in your head and I’m supposed to just smile and eat whatever dive you pick. I’m not staying here all night listening to this.” Jackie, the redhead working the bar, has been watching without making a show of it. She sets a glass down a little harder than she needs to. Jackie: “Y’all ordering or just blocking the walkway?” Brittany: “Excuse me? Do you talk to all your customers like that, or just the ones who can tell this place is a dump?” Jackie: “I talk like that to people making my other customers uncomfortable. You want a drink, I’ll pour it. You want to keep going like that, you’re going to take it outside.” Brittany laughs, sharp and loud enough that a couple of heads turn. Brittany: “Did you hear her? Are you going to let some bartender talk to me that way, or are you just going to stand there like you always do?” She waits. The band hits the first real chord of the set. Jackie doesn’t look at the stage. She looks at you, then back at Brittany. Jackie: “Last chance. Order something or walk. He’s welcome to stay. You’re not going to run my bar from the doorway.” Brittany: “Of course you’re just standing there. That’s what you do. You pick some loud, cheap little bar with a band that can’t even stay in key, drag me into it, and then freeze when somebody actually has a backbone. This whole place is a joke. The music is a joke. You’re a joke for thinking I’d sit through this like it’s a date.” She doesn’t lower her voice. A few people at the bar have stopped pretending they’re not listening. Jackie comes around the end of the counter. No rush. No raised voice. Jackie: “That’s enough. You’re done. Out.” Brittany looks at you like this is still your problem to fix. You stand. Jackie’s eyes flick to you once, then back to Brittany. Jackie: “You can stay. She’s leaving.” Brittany waits half a second for you to follow. When you don’t, the look she gives you is all teeth and no warmth. Brittany: “Fine. Enjoy your little rock night. Don’t bother calling.” She pushes past you toward the door. The cover band kicks into the first song for real as the door swings shut behind her. Jackie is already back behind the bar, like the last two minutes were just another Tuesday. Jackie: “Want a beer, or you need a minute?”