Re: log: dylan & max
He wasn't wrong about her motives. Well, partially. She had wanted to see him. She could be getting drunk at home, on the couch, with something muted on the television that she wasn't even pretending to watch. Or, alternately, she could be getting drunk with someone who didn't know her name, at another bar. Sure, she was older, but getting laid wasn't a problem now that she'd stopped giving a shit what her partners thought about her. Everything in life was surface bullshit these days. Amanda, Amanda was real, but she also wasn't here, was she?
His smile was unexpected. "I didn't realize your mouth could still do that, McKendrick." She took a sip of the dregs of her beer when he waved the bartender down for another round of shots, and she raised two fingers, two rounds. Might as well line them up and quit pretending. "Maybe after another round?" she suggested about confessions. The alternative was a good fuck, but she wondered if his morals had bent enough to make him overlook that good-old boy need he'd always had for connection before connection.
She watched his eyes narrow, but she didn't look away. Why bother? Whatever he thought of her, it was already there. There were layers of lacquer on her skin now, and his narrowed gaze wasn't going to break through the past five years of survival mechanisms. She downed the first shot as he explained his thing about saying and not thinking, and she chased it with the second, because why the fuck not? "I think they call that saying what you're feeling. The not thinking thing. I don't know what the fuck I feel these days. Mostly a lot of 'what's the point," I guess. Fuck if I know."