Leah didn't need to linger more than a span of minutes outside the bar on Main, the one with light streaming out of its windows and the sound that leaked into the street whenever the door opened, to know it wasn't for her. It was so small-town, it ached. That kind of local, where doubtless the bartenders remembered your order from one night to the next, and people held birthdays in the back-room. It caught her lungs, stole the air and she turned on snow, boots crunching and headed out.
Outskirts, and this looked promising. It was out of the way and quiet, and the lot was mostly empty which was reassuring. Leah had never been reclusive. She liked touch too much, and she liked admiration far too well, and reclusiveness left you alone with who you were when you weren't pretending to be someone else. Leah knew who that was, she cleaved tight to it, steel-strong. But that didn't mean she didn't enjoy the empty pleasure of following someone else's script for a night.
Pity about the need for gloves, then.
She wore them hitched high, elbow-length and thin silk, under a sweater soft and city-expensive, and the heat caught her as she walked into the Roadhouse, pinked her cheeks to warm olive. She ignored the bar, and she watched the young men playing pool, showing off for one another and for the one of two women who lurked, as if only to be audience for this show.