Re: Gotham: Russ & Imogen
"No, mira, mira, mira." He was right. The bartender looked confused, and Imogen wasn't as used to bars as she was to open skies. She didn't know which bars mainly sold hard booze and bad beer, and she didn't know which bars specialized in fruity drinks and paper umbrellas. It would take time, learning, and her entire life had been lessons with fingers and hands. The Montessori would be thrilled about the blonde girl who'd evaded the classroom, and filling in bubbles to decipher intelligence held no meaning for her. "Lemon juice, vodka, and sugar," she said, and her voice was Britannia meets something strangely exotic and incongruous to the girl made up of shade of pale. "Two, please," she added, after giving the ratio of booze to sweet; she'd learned to love the drink at work, after her shift ended and with the realization that something boozy made her voice sound raspy in a way she found aesthetically appealing.
She slid up onto the stool, and she wasn't particularly sexual in her movements; the people who paid to see her show weren't in search of hip moves that would make them salivate. But she was comfortable in skin that had always been the wrong color, and she looked at the man beside her as she let the pack fall to her feet, the violin case unslung from it's sling of bright yellow and resting atop the rest. "Is it always this dreadful outside?" He looked like he'd know.
And when the two shot glasses came, she slid one across to him, carefully stretch until it touched the edge of his amber-smoked glass.