Jeez, fine, all right, Dad. "If you mistook me for anythin' but rude, then well, that's your fuckin' problem," she stated, with a slight roll of her eyes. "Not mine." Just to be petulant about it, Dahlia tipped her head back and took one last swig from the flask. However, she then wrenched the cap shut and tucked it between her knees--out of sight from the bartender, but not out of hers.
Like a bell, the word 'food' had pinged her stomach's attention, which cramped in response. Though, to be fair, she was always hungry. But when food was sparse--as it often had been, and still was, sometimes--her first instinct was to ignore it, to put the thought away, whatever it took to keep running. Still, she found herself hungrily staring at the tap the bartender was working with hunched shoulders, pining after those empty calories because at least they would sate the beast for a while. And get her good and wasted. Two-for-one.
"Anyway," Dahlia added, somewhat absently, as her tongue rolled over her lips, which tingled numbly from whiskey. "Everyone goes to a restaurant t'eat. Not everyone goes to a bar juss t'drink. A better metaphor s' more like...who brings their own snacks to a sporting event or a movie theater when they got concessions. An' th'answer to that is fuckin' everyone, 'cause that shit's a scam." Tearing her ravenous attention away from the tap, she glanced up at him. "You gonna tell me you're too much of a goody two shoes t'have never done that?"