dahlia is a total (kayo) wrote in repose, @ 2015-11-22 16:21:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, dahlia haight, jude coleman |
Mean-Eyed Cat: Dahlia & Jude
Who: Dahlia & Jude
What: Meeting of rival bartenders and pocket whiskey.
Where: The Mean-Eyed Cat
When: Late Sunday night.
Warnings/Rating: Swears, at minimum. TBD.
Sometimes, a girl just wants to go out. But sometimes that girl is also a bartender, and makes shit for wages, and has a rule about not spending what little she had on something she can do better. So, truth be told, she usually did most of her drinking at home. Cheaper, more efficient, and no men around to look at her like merchandise.
Leaning against her bike parked outside of the Mean-Eyed Cat, Dahlia stowed away a tall flask in the interior pocket of her jacket.
At the end of a long and exhausting work week, she rarely ever wanted anything to do with polite interaction in society. Or sobriety. But tonight, despite her cranky self, she had decided the idea of sitting in her cold and cramped trailer and getting shitfaced solely in the company of Mr. Daniels--well, it depressed her tonight, for some reason. It wasn't like that was outside her firmly-established status quo or something. Regardless, she put on the most catcall-repellent clothing she owned--leather jacket, plain and zippered sweatshirt, threadbare jeans, shit-kicking boots--all together generating a high quota of fuck off--and went out. In the past, she'd usually hit the roadhouse in moods like this--where she could grab a table in a dark corner and sit unmolested and covertly sip from her own supply of pocket whiskey, as long as she ordered a token beer every hour or so to keep up appearances. But, well. The last time she'd been in--a couple months back--there had been a bit of a, ah, misunderstanding. Involving her fists. Connecting with some asshole's jaw. But a misunderstanding, nonetheless, that meant she had to take her chances elsewhere tonight.
And drinking at work on her day off was way the fuck out of the question. So, lacking any other options in this shithole of a town, the Cat it was.
Dahlia hauled herself up the stairs and shouldered the front door of the bar open, senses instantly assaulted by air thick with guitars, the clacking of pool cues, and a boozy patina. It was warm in here, at least. Had that going for it. She grabbed a spot in the quietest corner of the bar, spinning the stool around so she could lean backwards against the bar. From beneath the hood of her sweatshirt, Dahlia clumsily scrubbed her face with a hand and peered downward with heavy eyes at her phone in the other, flicking through her contacts around the spiderwebbing and idly debating convincing someone to come out. Maybe Connie--maybe she'd come out if she wasn't working tomorrow. Maybe. Needed some spirits first, to lift hers. She generally tried to keep friends away from her more brusque moods, especially if she wanted to keep them as friends. Or, well. At least until she was a little less sober.
Shooting a glance over her shoulder, Dahlia made sure the bartender's back was still turned before unhooking the flask in her jacket just long enough to take a swig, then carefully tucked it away again.