His buddy elbows him in the ribs and points to the opposite end of the Pub, where a new arrival sits. All Valentine can see is a curtain of brown curls, but that’s all it takes to keep his attention. That, and the curve of her back as she sits in a barstool, lonely, but not alone due to the multiple pairs of eyes that are undoubtedly sizing her up. His jaw drops when she turns her head, as if on cue. “No. Fuckin’. Way.” His pals are confused, but he’s long gone.
Valentine began shoving his way across the crowded room, pushing people aside like an overzealous dog bumping past kneecaps. Mindless, in the way that he feels compelled to break the distance between them until he’s close enough to clasp a hand on her tiny shoulder. His expression wears the smile of a person 20 years his junior.
“I’d know those eyes anywhere.”
The pub had quickly become one of her favorite spots in town. It reminded her of places she would frequent as a teenager in Chicago, memorizing the address on her fake ID in case they carded her. She stirred her drink -- ruby sour, extra cherry -- absentmindedly, waiting for nothing in particular. Most nights she just came here to kill time, although she figured she would have to start working soon. Maraschino. Carmen had learned to all but completely tune out her last name, especially in bars. Usually, it was only someone ordering double cherries in their drink. She didn’t bat an eye when she heard it, anymore.
A heavy hand on her shoulder causes her to stir. She spins around and looks him up and down, confusion written all over her face. Her eyes shift from the hand on her shoulder up to his face. “Sorry, sir,” she begins, wide eyed, “do I know you?” For a moment she tries to keep her composure before erupting into uproarious laughter and bringing her hands up to his cheeks.
“You look just the same, kid,” she smiles and pinches one of his cheeks, “what are you doing here?”