Attention span waning with the alcohol, Dahlia got distracted halfway to her flask--when he looked back, she was engrossed by flipping through something on her phone on the bartop, fingertip working around the fractures in the screen. Wait, had the bartender said something? "Mm," she responded, absorbed by her screen. How eloquent. Then her thoughts caught up, and she pulled her gaze away from her phone for a moment. "Yeah, well," she frowned at him, "that's great an' all, but I ain't 'sactly made of money."
Which, that much certainly seemed true. She cut her own choppy hair and pulled all of her clothing from second-hand stores and wore them until they fell apart. The pieces that cost money--the jacket, the boots, the phone--had been nice once, but were all held together on good faith at this point. Remnants from a past life.
Dahlia added in a lower voice, "Beer s'basically a food, anyway." Well. It fed something in her, sure. Since she was clearly a woman with an appetite. Gnawing absently on a fingernail, her attention dropped back to her phone. The screen showed property listings of some sort. Commercial spaces, all small and boxy warehouses. Hefty price tags, especially for someone with such a sad wad of bills in her pocket.
There was something habitual about the way she scanned the listings, looking for something that she couldn't find. And, like most of her habits, it didn't seem to help her mood much. But hope was a hell of a drug.