WHO: Max Guevara and there's an Opening WHAT: Bar. Miko needed to post for her. WHEN: Monday evening WARNINGS: Can't imagine yet -- underaged drinking, yikes! Ahem. I just needed to get her active again. Back to your daily programming now.
It was just another Monday, which meant just another drink. They didn't do much in the end, but it was soothing and particularly normal. Max had made a routine of it after class, after work, after whatever. She liked the feeling of being a regular somewhere again, but it still wasn't the same as home. They knew her name but no one really knew... her. Then again, guess her friends hadn't really, either. She'd told herself it was safer for them that way as many times as she'd tried to write the speech she'd give explaining her life. Worked out real well so far.
There was something else keeping her twitching in her tall bar-stool, however: She hadn't heard from Logan in days and, seriously, what kind of a guy didn't call for days? Not that she needed him to call or something. That was stupid and way high-school. But it was bad for business. And when there was no business... there was just a lot of downtime for Max to grow antsy in.
The start of her bartime in Royston hadn't been all that fantastic but she had rounded back, retrieved her back, and bought a few beers since then without incident. And without even a tiny glimpse of College Boy which, naturally, was for the better. She had enough of a track record with guys hanging around asking questions. Like... for instance, the currently no-contact Logan. Moodily, Max passed her second beer bottle between her hands, sliding it back and forth on the bar deftly so that it didn't even think about tipping to one side or the other. And all absently done. Just one of those things that came with the personal cocktail that was her. Yeah. Beer bottle Olympics. Made you grateful to be born, and biologically altered. Not that Max was hung up on this, of course not.
She shifted after a moment, glancing over her shoulder to survey the place for interesting, even dangerous, faces. Or maybe, like, a dart board or a jukebox or something. Hell, at this point, she'd take a pinball machine.
With a huff of a sigh, she turned back to front and hoisted the beer bottle to her lips to drink. At least she could still do this. Turns out, not having had a pulse made people real uptight about whether you were nineteen or twenty one. Max didn't see the whole big deal, but she also didn't care because there were important things called batting your eyelashes and, all else failed, using a fake ID. Oooh, criminal, I know. But Logan had totally made them up for her so it wasn't like a bad thing, she was, like, lying for justice or something. Besides, had to be the single most interesting thing that'd happened to this place since the eighties.
... Maybe she needed to be a regular at a different bar.