When a blond girl dropped onto the stool next to him, Reese didn't immediately take notice of her identity. He was too busy throwing back his seventh - or was it eighth? - shot of Ogden's Best. It was a poor way of remembering his brother, but it was drawing him out of the funk he'd slipped into with the anniversary approaching, days ago. In fact, he might even call himself downright amiable this evening, if something of a sap.
The whiskey burned its way down his throat, adding heat to his already-warm middle. His cheeks were flushed and his dark eyes bright. He set the glass down a little easier this time, not wanting to frighten off the first company he'd had all evening. Some people avoided him because of the way he was staring into his drink. Others might have remembered him from school. He doubted this girl did, because he couldn't place her features when he finally turned to look at her. She was familiar, like a faint whisper at the back of his mind, but no name came to his lips and if he'd had to guess, his immediate thought would have been Hufflepuff.
"Evening," was his weak response, voice gravelly from the drink. Then, because conversation required participation on both sides, he added, "You don't look much the drinking type." Even years of practice couldn't keep the brogue of his youth hidden away forever. Sometimes he hated being Scottish in England. It made him memorable and forgotten was what Reese preferred to be. Things were less messy that way.