And then she would officially turn thirty. Yay! And to top it all off, the argument with the bartender over her desire—no need—for one alcoholic drink wasn't helping either.
Oh, heaven help her! Was it too much to ask? She wasn't asking to conquer the world. It was one drink, one small, bloody drink.
Dear Mother and Father, please forgive me for swearing like this, but this is just too damn much. She was on the verge of bursting into tears again.
It was her Lorddamn birthday, for Lord's sake, so just let her have that one sip, a lick, at least to know what it's like to taste alcohol before bloody midnight rolls around and she officially ended up being a spinster forever.
A spinster who had never tasted alcohol on her tongue? What would the dental team at her practice say if they found out? She could imagine them gossiping and writing on their weblog already.
Evonne Willard, the highly trained gum specialist, sourly turned thirty without a lick of alcohol to her name. Oh, the shame. No. She could not bear it.
This MUST call for desperate measures. "Look, please, you've got to believe me," Evonne pleaded. When the bartender looked unmoved, she resorted to using reasoning. "I'm working now. I'm not a little kid anymore.
I'm a periodontist." Still nothing. "I bloody worked as a dentist for two full years before applying to study in the gum field." She'd started shouting now. The bartender didn't even blink an eye at her reasoning.
At that moment she felt like yanking all his teeth, gum disease or not, and jabbing them right into his eyeballs, wanting to hear him whine in pain. Oh, she wished she were a witch like her friend Rosa. Then everyone would be freakin' scared of her and she wouldn't have to resort to begging for a small drink.
"Have you any idea how long both degrees took me? A full eight years, plus my three years out practicing, that equates to eleven!" By this stage, she was on a full rampage, slamming her little fist onto the bar to intimidate him, so mad at her current situation that she could feel her cheeks growing red.
As each word was spoken, her voice notched up an octave. "So if you think I'm under twenty-five, you must be a bloody idiot."
In return, the bartender just continued to blink lazily, staring at her oddly, like she was a psychotic patient just out of a mental hospital, rambling on about her profession. "How do you think I got into this freakin' nightclub in the first place?" She rambled on.
"I'm well over twenty-five, I assure you." "I'm sorry, miss, but I need to confirm with your ID," the bartender repeated indifferently. "Are you a broken record? I told you my friend is going to find my wallet." She fumed in frustration.
"It must be in her bag or something." "Well, I'm happy to wait." The bartender smiled at her. "Well, I'm not happy to wait.
I've only got five minutes left until midnight. Now are you going to serve me that drink or not?" she challenged. "No!" the bartender said simply, not backing down. Her shoulders sagged in defeat.
Dear Lord, you will have me become a spinster without allowing me to drink alcohol, is that right? You want me to die a spinster? Well, I'm happy to oblige with that request, but why must you deprive me of alcohol too? I want to experience drinking before I turn thirty.