"Not every monster wears a mask. Some sit in bars and smile, like me. My name is Grace."
The dim yellow light from the bar's neon sign spills across my glass, turning the cheap whiskey into something almost beautiful. From where I sit, I can see him, another arrogant suit, laughing too loudly, leaning too close to the waitress.
His wife sat beside him, a woman in a neat cream blouse and gold earrings that probably came in a gift box after another one of his late nights. She stirs her drink, slow and absent, her eyes fixed on nothing. Not the band. Not the people around her. Just… nothing.
When he speaks, she flinches. It's small, almost invisible, but I see it. The way her shoulders tighten. The way she reaches for her glass is like it's armor. He doesn't notice. Men like him rarely notice anything unless it's about them.
I take another slow sip, the burn in my throat grounding me, and lean back into the shadows. I'm not here for conversation. Not here for the music either. I'm here because… well, some habits are hard to break.
The band plays a lazy jazz number. The bartender pretends not to hear the man's crude jokes. The wife smiles when he pats her knee, and it looks like it hurts more than it soothes.
I watch. I listen. I wait.
The wife's laughter is brittle now, cracking in places she doesn't bother to hide. He talks over her, a man who loves the sound of his own voice.
I drain the last of my whiskey, let the ice clink against my teeth, and set the glass down without looking away from them.
When I finally glance at my table, the corner of a manila folder peeks out from under my bag. I slide it closer with my fingertips, the smooth paper warm from the room's heat.
Across the font, in neat black ink, a name stares back at me.
Williams Coker.
.I close the folder before anyone can see, but my eyes are already back on him. Laughing, oblivious, sitting beside a woman whose silence says more than her words ever could.
I lean back in my chair, letting the dim light from the bar spill over him like a spotlight. The more I watch, the more I see it. The way his hand rests too heavily on her thigh, not in affection but in ownership. The way she flinches when his voice sharpens, even in public.
He doesn't know it yet, but his life is already under my microscope. I've been watching him for weeks. Every routine, every habit, every careless mistake.
My drink arrives again, the barman sliding it across without a word. I don't thank him. My eyes are still fixed on Williams Coker.
The band starts playing a slower song, and he pulls the woman closer. Her smile flickers there and gone in an instant, but I catch it. Not the smile itself, but the strain behind it.
I look away before she can catch me staring, my fingers tracing the condensation on my glass. I tell myself it's none of my business. People like them always find a way to make it look perfect on the outside.
Still, I keep watching.
William signals for the bill, and they rise from their seats. He places a hand on the small of his wife's back, steering her toward the door. I slip a note under my glass and move to follow, keeping a casual distance.
Just as I step away from the bar, someone cuts across my path. A sharp shoulder collides with mine.
Cold liquid splashes down my arm.
I look down to see crimson spreading across my sleeve…red wine, expensive and sticky.
"Oh, for God's sake! The day just couldn't get any worse!" the woman snaps. Her eyes are wide with outrage, her manicured hand clutching the empty glass. "Do you know how much this drink costs?"
"I'm sorry" I begin, glancing toward the door. William and his wife are already slipping into the night.
"Sorry?" She steps closer, her perfume thick and suffocating. "You're not going anywhere until you pay for this."
I keep my voice even, but my jaw tightens. "I'll replace it. Just give me…."
She grips my wrist, nails digging in. "Now."
Through the glass doors, a dark sedan pulls away from the curb. Tail lights blur into the traffic, and with them, my chance.
"Fuck!". I exclaimed in both disappointment and anger at the lady still holding my wrist.
I pull my wrist free, my smile tight enough to cut glass. "Enjoy your drink," I say, brushing past her.
But the damage is done. I already lost sight of Williams.
The night air slaps me in the face the second I step outside, colder than it has any right to be. I shove my hands into my coat pockets, ignoring the sticky patch on my sleeve. The wine smell clings to me like an accusation.
Traffic hums along the street, neon signs flicker, and the sidewalk feels emptier without my target in it. I scan the passing cars, but the sedan is long gone, swallowed whole by the city.
A part of me wants to kick the curb, to scream at the woman back in the bar, to run until I find them again. But impulse gets you nowhere.
Instead, I stand still. I breathe. I think.
Williams Coker isn't going anywhere. Not really. Men like him stick to their patterns. Same haunts, same table, same seat. The city is big, but his world is small.
I start walking, the heels of my boots clicking against wet pavement. Somewhere down the street, a jazz riff drifts from an open door. I catch my reflection in a shop window. Calm, composed, almost bored. No one looking at me would guess I've just lost something important.
But that's the thing about losses. They can always be turned into opportunities if you know how to wait.
And I do.
I'm halfway down the block when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Tye.
I almost let it ring out. She has a way of pulling me into conversations I don't want to have but I swipe to answer.
"Where are you?" she says without preamble.
"Out."
"Out where?.. Besides, I sent you a text on Instagram. Do I need to book an appointment to get a response?!"
"No Tye. Maybe you will need to in the future." I responded playfully.
Her sigh crackles through the line. "You're impossible, you know that? I was thinking we could grab a late coffee. Or, you know, an actual meal. Something that doesn't involve whiskey and shadows."
A small smile tugs at my lips despite myself.
Tye has known me long enough to read between the lines, even when I don't give her any. She's the only person who calls me out without ending up on my blacklist.
"Not tonight," I say, sidestepping a puddle.
"Grace…" She drags my name out like she's trying to guilt me into submission. "You can't keep living like this. You need… people."
I stop under a streetlamp, watching my breath curl into the air. People.
I don't need people. I need discipline. Focus. Control.
"I'll call you tomorrow," I say.
"You won't," she replies, but there's no heat in her voice. Just quiet resignation.
I hang up before she can say more and slip the phone back into my pocket. The truth is, Tye's the closest thing I have to a friend. But there are things about me she can never know.
The streets are quieter as I head toward my apartment building, the hum of the city thinning into the rustle of leaves and the low hiss of tires over wet pavement.
Inside my apartment, the silence greets me like an old friend. I flick on the lamp, its warm glow spilling over the small table by the door. My coat comes off, my shoes follow, and I move to the desk in the corner.
The manila folder waits there, exactly where I left it this morning. I open it slowly, my fingertips brushing over the glossy photograph of Williams Coker. The same smug smile. The same arrogance.
Beneath the photo, my notes, pages of them are filled with dates, times, and places.
I close the folder and rest my hand on top of it, letting the quiet wrap around me.
One lost chance isn't the end. There will always be another.