The Cat: Patrick G/MJ W
[It was late, but it was a bar, so there were people there. There always were, right up until MJ started denying drinks and pretending like she was going to unplug the jukebox and put the pool cues away. Even then, townies lingered, because, well, it was that or go home. But, she was young enough that her sleep schedule still felt flexible, so she'd open or she'd close, and it was fine, as long as she got enough sleep that she could get up and do her makeup, which was personally important to her.
It was totally on a whim that she'd reached out to Patrick. She didn't really know him, but she hadn't forgotten him, and, as usually happened when she went through a break-up, she remembered every boy she'd glossed over when she was with whoever. Not that she was like, trying to get with him, because she wasn't, but she remembered him and she thought she might as well try. He'd seemed nice. And he was. When she reached out or whatever. He was only nice. She didn't feel badly about making him come down to the bar, because she figured, the least she could do was give him a drink on the house.
She was wiping the seat of a stool in front of the bar. And even though it was close to closing, she still looked pretty good. (She'd checked.) Her hair was loose today, her earrings her usual large, golden hoops, and she had a dress she'd only rediscovered while moving and packing up her closet. Leggings and flats, a whole lot of cheap pearl necklaces, and light makeup. She checked her reflection in a glass that was still mostly full of amber beer that someone had left, and then she rolled her eyes at herself, and went behind the bar to pour the warm beer down the drain.]