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Feb. 13th, 2022 09:33 pmIt isn't a birthday party.
Beverly has been adamant about that. She's never actually had one before, more inclined to let the occasion pass as little fanfare as possible, and she doesn't intend to change that now. Still, she can't turn eighteen and not do something. It's a big milestone. A huge one, really, and fucking terrifying at that. There's so much she's still clueless about, so much it feels like she's running out of time to make up her mind about.
Tonight, though, she doesn't want to think about that. She just wants to enjoy not being a kid — a little girl — anymore.
Having settled on a good destination for the night — a bar near her house, the sort of relaxed place that lets anyone in and only requires ID from anyone ordering drinks, so those under eighteen can still freely get in and those of age, herself now included, can reap the benefits that come with that — she texts some friends, inviting them to come meet her if they want. For her part, she finds a reasonably sized table to claim, then heads over to the bar. There's something painfully refreshing about not having to aim for a bartender who looks like he won't bother to card her if she looks at him just right. It's even better when she presents her ID as asked, and the bartender, seeing that it's her eighteenth birthday, tells her the drink is on the house.
It's not much of a sign, exactly, and wouldn't be even if she were to believe in such things, ultimately pretty meaningless. Still, there's a tiny little sprout of something that might be optimism inside her. Maybe, just maybe, it will be an okay year.
Beverly has been adamant about that. She's never actually had one before, more inclined to let the occasion pass as little fanfare as possible, and she doesn't intend to change that now. Still, she can't turn eighteen and not do something. It's a big milestone. A huge one, really, and fucking terrifying at that. There's so much she's still clueless about, so much it feels like she's running out of time to make up her mind about.
Tonight, though, she doesn't want to think about that. She just wants to enjoy not being a kid — a little girl — anymore.
Having settled on a good destination for the night — a bar near her house, the sort of relaxed place that lets anyone in and only requires ID from anyone ordering drinks, so those under eighteen can still freely get in and those of age, herself now included, can reap the benefits that come with that — she texts some friends, inviting them to come meet her if they want. For her part, she finds a reasonably sized table to claim, then heads over to the bar. There's something painfully refreshing about not having to aim for a bartender who looks like he won't bother to card her if she looks at him just right. It's even better when she presents her ID as asked, and the bartender, seeing that it's her eighteenth birthday, tells her the drink is on the house.
It's not much of a sign, exactly, and wouldn't be even if she were to believe in such things, ultimately pretty meaningless. Still, there's a tiny little sprout of something that might be optimism inside her. Maybe, just maybe, it will be an okay year.
