Dahlia snorted. "Riiight," she drawled. "Bet you eat all your vegetables an' return your library books on time an' everythin', too." She was being rhetorical, if her soft squint said anything other than disbelief. Now that she was really looking at him--and not just shooting furtive glances over her shoulder--she idly realized he peddled his innocence at her--with those chaste, sunshine smiles--almost the same way he had pushed her to buy a drink.
Not that it changed her opinion of the bartender any. She, of all people, knew it was part of the job. "You must be real fun at parties," she added, running her mouth because, well--that was her job. What she did best, really.
But then there was beer, and her attention on the bartender wandered off. She leaned forward to dip her nose into the glass he'd pulled for her and, in doing so, reflexively constructed a little fortress for it with her body. She had done this with her flask, earlier--having loosely folded her arms around it like a barrier--but here she also pulled the beer glass close to herself and then let her hand linger, like she expected it to disappear if she was not on guard.
An odd gesture, certainly. On her, though, the move looked and felt entirely familiar. Normal, even. Eating around others had always been fraught with peril--from school cafeterias to shelters--and though this was just a bar and just a beer, consuming around strangers was enough to quietly stoke old anxieties in the back of her mind.
Sipping from the top of the glass, she paused, tongue reappearing briefly to whisk foam off her upper lip. Good for tap, really. Couldn't say why--wasn't her specialty--but it was decent. "...s'not bad," she admitted, out loud. Wait. Hadn't meant to--damnit, whiskey.