Re: log: dylan & max
She laughed when he shoved his hands back into his pockets; she was too quick to see the aborted move to pull them free after the zipper tug. Even drunk, even swaying unevenly against his side (which she blamed on his arm and need for heat), she was still fast, and she looked around the diner-tin space as he followed her in. It definitely wasn't her normal joint. There was no sticky bar, and the place didn't reek of smoke. There wasn't the echo of sticks hitting pool balls, and the air wasn't beer-sweet. But it wasn't ritzy, and she liked things simple. She'd lived the rich life with Brandon for a long time, but it hadn't ever suited her. She was, at heart, jeans and a t-shirt and some black boots underneath; red booths worked fine for her.
It was empty too, which helped; the hipster crowd (though she didn't actually know that term) made her feel old. But it wasn't crowded, and her ears were booze-ringing, and the shitty music didn't register immediately.
She followed; a willing participant to that hand on her side. Predictably, she started to slide into the booth opposite him. Even drunk, she was careful not to make that mistake, but he drew in her beside him, and she looked at him with fuzzy-drunk confusion for a moment before sliding across the once-sticky red beside him.
She propped her feet up on the opposing booth, too drunk to care that she was too old for that shit, and she reached across him for the plastic menu that was tucked behind the metal napkin holder. She sat back, and she tried to focus on words, but that so wasn't happening. She was about to say as much, and she'd just turned to make some smartass comment about him being chivalrous and ordering for both of them, when he said he'd thought he would never see her again.
The menu was limp in her hand; she didn't notice as it teetered. "You thought about seeing me again?" It was too direct for someone with massive fears of rejection. But, hey, she was wasted. Chances were this would all be a booze blur come morning.