Re: The Mean-Eyed Cat: Cat/Steve Denim, on denim, on gray slacks, and Cat arrived at the bar with a joint between her fingers. The paper was rolled tight, and the weed was pure and sweet, and she had no idea what she was walking into. Oh, she knew something was wrong, because she knew Steve, but she didn't know what. But, in her experience? Drinking in the wee small hours usually meant heartbreak, and didn't she know a thing or three about that? She knew a little about Steve's complicated little love triangle. Cat? Could never do a triangle. She was jealous enough of the world when things were one-on-one. But, you know, she was possibly-maybe-technically single at present, and she always had plenty of advice to unfurl from her back pocket.
She walked. Her new place was down Main and it wasn't a long journey to the bar. She took her time, and by the time she arrived? She was ready to sit down and have a drink. She heard the music's sad tones from beyond the wooden door, and, yep, heartbreak. So, adequately prepared, she walked in, shouldering the door and then approaching the bar with hips canted masculinely forward and paired with a sway that wasn't masculine at all. Steve was there, drinking in the gloaming, and Cat approached with the joint held out in offering. "Pour a girl a drink, won't you?"