"No," Jude said brightly and with confidence he shouldn't have possessed about the way mothers looked or otherwise. Jude's mother had been limp and pale and fragile, and he remembered her as the smell of lavender, of damp soap and tears and illness. His experience did not take in the spectrum of mothers, even if he knew - factually - that motherhood did not express a prohibition on tattoos and attitude. "Nothing like." This had more to do with the booze than it did her banishment of babies.
He watched the measured pace gamble towards completion. Jude's face rarely betrayed judgment, and it didn't do so now. If he had been judgmental about people drinking, he wouldn't have worked behind a bar.
"Who says I gave you my best work?" Mild, and he whisked away the empty glass with efficiency and a full-watt smile turned on the patron who had the fortune to sit beside Dahlia.
"Isn't it uncomfortable?" Eyebrows raised. Innocence personified, thank you kindly.