After the patron bounded away, the amusement in Dahlia's expression fell flat. Well, that'd been dumb of her. In that fleeting moment--warm and drunk and feeling good, for once--she'd forgotten where she was. This was not of those bars out in the Capital she made the long pilgrimage to whenever her schedule allowed--places that had a certain reputation where she felt freer to be herself--but rather, this was the Cat. And here she was, still stuck in this straight-ass backwater town. At the rate she was burning through her savings, probably stuck here forever, too.
She hated the reminder. No one but to blame for herself for that one, either. Good job, Dahlia.
She rubbed at her mouth absently--the gesture one part lost in thought, one part like she was trying to scrub the resentment off of her face. Folding her arms again, her thumb idly rolled over the underside of one forearm. The tattoos there were specifically designed to obscure, so the scarring underneath them was only visible in the right sort of light--but her fingers knew right where to go. They knew those marks along her hardened veins intimately. Like old friends.
Licking her lips hungrily, Dahlia glanced upward again and realized, with some embarrassment, that the bartender was still hovering around--not that he could go far. Every smartass quip she could think of to save face just died on her tongue. So she looked away and fished in her pockets again--setting her beaten-up phone on the bartop first, then the thin roll of bills.
"Juss--get me 'nother of--whatever that was," Dahlia said distractedly. Because--fuck it. With another pint, she'll have just pissed away most of her pitiful grocery budget for the week on alcohol, but when didn't she, really?
Though, when his back was turned, she had every intent of stealing another nip from that flask between her knees. Wasn't about to let perfectly good whiskey go to waste.