Re: Sitting room, at the bar with brandy
Studying him with a too-forward eye for a woman of the time, she grew to know him more than most people ever would. Or should. His history was woven through him in such a way that most people would need guidance to follow, the weft and warp of a life well-lived thus far. But she knew more than that, even. She knew the first blades of spring grass eaten by the sheep who would be shorn in the fall for the wool, the twist of the yarn, the fingerprints of the weaver. She looked at him, and looking was knowing.
"Good evening." The words finally came as she settled herself more on the barstool in a rustle of crisp fabric. But perhaps the words took a little too long - the new door slowing her knowledge just enough that the delay in reply stood out. Her eyes finally shifted, downward and to the side, slicked over the polished bartop to his hat and gloves, nodding at their appearance there. "I thought we might have a commonality. And if not..." Her smile appeared, a tipping of her lips that had found its memory of the etiquette of the time. "There is nothing wrong with enjoying a silence together, either."