Terese Mörtvik

Just Get Me a F*cking Drink, A**hole

Friday, early evening. Me and a friend are hitting up an After Work with a bunch of awesome ladies.
It’s busy by the bar, but our other friends get served, so we wait.
It’s obviously our turn and we’re standing right in front of the bartender, but he doesn’t pay us any mind. Too busy wiping counters and what-not.
A woman glides up to the bar and waits for a beat as well. The bartender’s eyes glide right over me and my friend again and to the end of the bar, where the new woman stands. He gets her order. I note that the woman is wearing a glittery top and a large necklace.
I look at my friend. She notes that she usually has a hard time getting served at bars. I have time to think about asshole racists on her behalf. Warranted or not, I've no idea. For myself, I realize I’m wearing a black hoodie. We’re both carrying large bags, by virtue of having been outside, photographing.
I say it’s getting hot, and remove my hoodie, all casual-like. Underneath, I’m wearing a glittery top and a large necklace. The bartender returns from a trip to the kitchen and, just as expected, he looks right at me, giving me a warm welcome, acting as if I, and my friend, haven’t been standing there for 10 minutes.
He takes our orders. He doesn’t get a tip. I keep my hoodie off for the rest of the evening.