Jo, Beck, Peach (You)
I find a table close to yours and sit with my back to you. My only disguise is a thrift store Princeton jacket and I try to pass off as one of those assholes who wear sunglasses indoors.
It’s another one of those swanky bars bitches like Peach drag their less fortunate friends to so they can rub their faces in all the fancy bullshit and where do they get off charging thirty bucks for a cocktail?
Peach orders vodka and she requests crushed ice instead of cubes. I imagine you smirking at her, and I feel vindicated and amused.