"And after the fifteenth one, everybody suddenly gets prettier." George replied, rolling the bottom of the glass around on it's edge before letting it drop back down. Except Rube. He looked just as pissed off. He only got blurrier. "I know a guy who says one bottle of Moonshine will have bluebirds singing out your ass."
Ah, alcohol. Social lubricant. She surrendered the empty glass to the barkeep.
Lindsey. That was unfortunate. Poor guy. At least she could feel better about him not being her reap, even if he was the one who had a girl's name. Not that she had much right to criticize, being called George.
"Not your fault." She stopped to ask the tender if water was free, and received a glass and a straw. She stabbed the straw in, and took a sucked down a large swallow. She wanted to tell him he was lucky that he wasn't R. Erikson, because accourding to the clock on the wall across from his head, he would have only had six minutes left to buy another drink.
She directed the question to the barkeep, but he'd never heard the name before. Swiveling around on her stool, she leant back against the bar, chewing on the end of the straw sticking out of the water. The post-it was in her other hand, slightly soggy. "So, who's idea was Lidnsey?" she asked, her eyes watching the on-going mingling, as if she could spot R. Erikson with the Magical Reaping Powers that weren't so much magical as severely dissapointing.