Abi ran a hand swiftly down his back as he ordered for them, looking around the bar at every French label on every bottle. Trying to take in the detail in this world was difficult simply because there was so much of it. Getting drunk seemed like a happy extra to this night; she didn't need alcohol to enjoy his company or for courage like she normally did. His features looked rugged and worn but god, she had to imagine the life he had lived. "Thanks," she said, sipping the cocktail delicately.
"Holy fucking shit," she giggled, leaning her head on his shoulder and talking into his ear. "I'm in a bar in Paris drinking with Hemingway, watching T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound bump and grind, and Dali drawing," she drew back in manic laughter, "If I'm dead and this is Heaven, I must have been a very good girl in my life." Abi watched Dali, young and handsome, pass his eyes down her body before he went back to scribbling. Jesus.