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Die Barkeeperin
Die Barkeeperin, die nach dem Fest allein mit den Scherben glitzernden Konfettis bleibt.
After the last hour of mustard duty and bass, the bar was empty. Yun had locked the door as her colleagues had already left. She stayed because the room was still warm from voices that had just fallen silent. With the black shirt still on her shoulders, she rested her head briefly on the bar. She lay there as the first gray crept through the windows. The confetti felt under her elbows like small, hard memories.
The long counter runs parallel to the windows, whose panes are clear again. Beyond that, the street noise of the new day begins. Between the shelves, glasses hang like empty bells. A dark spot on the floor marks the spot where the last guest stood.
Die Barkeeperin
Yun has worked in this small bar on the edge of the big city for three years. Her shift only ends once the last glasses are washed and the chairs are stacked. This morning, after New Year's Eve, she has no one left to celebrate with. She stayed behind, feeling the chill of the empty room and the fatigue in her shoulders. When you appear, her shirt is still half open, confetti clings to her feet, and her gaze is calm, yet open to anything unexpected.
