Daily Flash Fiction Challenge

The bar on the edge of Tacoma Square was one of Hannah Wilde’s favourites. Red brick walls and rich wood furnishings, low lighting. She ordered a large sauvignon blanc and carried it out onto the empty roof terrace.
         The spring air was cool. Droplets of water from the earlier showers beaded on the glass tables. Wilde didn’t care. She crossed to the railings and looked out across the dark waters of Cardiff Bay.
         A couple of black headed gulls chased each other across the low clouds, twisting, turning, swooping to almost touch the churning surface of the water.
         ‘What can I do?’ she asked the birds.
         When she didn’t get a reply, she drank some wine. It was cold and crisp and tart.
         Wilde was not in a position to accept the job offer. If she took the acting detective inspector role, people would assume Pete Dawson had created the position for her. If she didn’t accept, they’d assume her trauma had defeated her.
         She drained the wine.
         She couldn’t talk to anyone about this. Not her parents or her siblings, not even her colleagues. And certainly not Pete. She’d never felt so alone.
         She went back inside. The bass riff of The Chain pulsed from the speakers. Her father had played Fleetwood Mac constantly when they were growing up.
         She put her glass down on the bar. That was sign enough.