Clara the waitress

Veyra reached behind the bar and produced a fresh waitress uniform—scandalously cut, but at least *covering*.

Clara’s fingers twitched. The bar’s patrons were just beyond that door.

She swallowed hard.

"...Fine." Her voice was a growl. "But I’m *writing you up* for this."

Veyra laughed, rich and delighted, as Clara snatched the uniform. "Oh, I have no doubt."

And with that, the health inspector turned waitress stormed toward the bar—ready to serve, whether she liked it or not.

Clara adjusted the straps of the uniform—*if it could even be called that*—with a scowl, her fingers trembling as she fastened the last clasp. The fabric was scandalously thin, but at least it covered her. Barely.

Veyra watched from behind the bar, swirling a glass of amber liquid with an amused glint in her eye. "You’ll do fine," she said, as if this were just another shift and not the most humiliating moment of Clara’s career.

Clara shot her a glare. "This doesn’t change anything. Your establishment is still a—"

A patron at the end of the bar waved, calling for a refill. Clara stiffened, then squared her shoulders. *Fine. If she had to do this, she’d do it properly.*

She approached the man, chin lifted, and—after a deep breath—pressed her fingers to her nipple. The bourbon flowed smoothly into his glass, the stream controlled, precise. The man grinned, tipping his hat. "Cheers, love."

Clara exhaled, surprised. No spillage. No mess. The membrane inside her kept the liquid from seeping into her skin, just as the machine had promised. The bourbon tasted *clean*—no strange aftertaste, no residue. The glass was spotless.

She moved through the bar, fulfilling orders with stiff efficiency, but as the night wore on, something shifted. The patrons weren’t leering as much as she’d expected. Some barely even looked up from their drinks. A group of women in the corner laughed as one of them ordered a cocktail, their conversation easy, unselfconscious.

And then there were the *other* waitresses.

Clara had assumed they’d be resentful, territorial. Instead, they offered her small smiles, quick tips—*"Lean forward just a little, or the stream gets weak"*—and even shared their breaks with her. One, a sharp-eyed woman named Lila, pressed a damp cloth into her hand when she fumbled a pour.

"You get used to it," Lila said, rebuttoning her own uniform between orders. "First night’s the worst. After that, it’s just… work."

Clara wiped her hands, watching as Lila demonstrated the proper way to switch between drinks—whiskey from the left, rum from the right—without cross-contamination. The system was *meticulous*. The machine sterilized between every refill. The gel lining ensured nothing lingered. The glasses were polished to a shine.

She caught Veyra observing her from across the room, one eyebrow raised.

Clara huffed, but the edge had left her voice. "This is still absurd."

"But?" Veyra prompted, smirking.

Clara didn’t answer. Instead, she poured another drink—this time without hesitation—and slid it to a waiting customer.

Maybe, *maybe*, it wasn’t as unsanitary as she’d thought.

She’d still be writing them up. But… perhaps not as severely.