Many months later...

Gabriela took a seat at the bar, pulling a stool out with her foot and slipping onto the polished wooden seat. Her weight settled, the slight heels on her boots hooking along the crisscrossing support bands of the stool, and she leaned forward until her elbows were on the polished bartop. 

Golden eyes peered from left to right, and then straight ahead at the mirror that was mostly hidden behind a collection of liquor bottles -- of all shapes and sizes. She could just barely make out her reflection, a dim and foggy thing these days. Still, for a moment she was caught by the piercing weight of molten gold irises and copper-colored lightning strikes across the sunset orbs. But she could only hold her own stare for so long before looking away, down to her gathered hands. 

It was a slow night.

She felt this wasn’t the first slow night -- the place looked practically abandoned. And, although the small staff that kept the tavern operational seemed to work even with a lack of patrons diligently, there were signs of neglect. For example, the dust in the corners of the room wafting through the air along with the perfume of melted candlewax and the soot from the large hearth at the center of the room. There were cobwebs as well, hanging like tattered pieces of thin fabric high up the rafters. 

Small oversights, probably, totally unnoticeable to most. 

“What can I get you?” asked the man behind the bar. He seemed neither gladdened nor annoyed by her presence. It was a curt, professional, and expected question.

What could he get her… Gabriela wondered. 

“A cup of tea,” she said softly, her eyes shifting from the tired brown gaze that regarded her expectantly. She stared at her hands again and tried to ignore how thin the man’s lips were, how discolored his mustache was around the corner of his mouth -- yellowish, while the rest of it was white as snow. “...honey, a slice of lemon -- if you have it.”

“We ain’t got lemons, I am afraid.”

He was already collecting a small metal teapot from under the bar, and filling it with boiling water that he seemed to have on tap somewhere. She didn’t notice or care where it came from. She only glanced for a moment before going back to study her glass-like fingernails. They looked as if they carried a coat of polish, but that wasn’t the case. Her nails were hard, like stone, and they had a gloss to them as if they were made of crystal. It was one of those uncanny things -- one of those oddly beautiful details. And once she felt the weight of the bartender's eyes on her hands, which she had called attention to by staring at so intently, she drew her hands back under the bartop and held them in her lap.

“That’s fine. I don’t mind.”

“Can I get you anything else?” the man asked as he set the metal teapot before Gabriela, along with a small white porcelain cup upon a small saucer, and besides that, a small honey jar with a golden spoon. 

“This is fine for now, thank you,” she smiled and he returned the gesture before walking to the other end of the bar. She watched him go -- a glimmer of longing in the gold of her eyes before she turned to the task at hand. The theatrics of pretending to be human. The great production of preparing tea -- gathering the small fabric bag, seeping it, gathering a spoonful of honey, dropping it into her cup, and pouring the hot, discolored tea water over it until it melted away. 

Chamomile. 

The smell was a comfort, even if the taste never would be.