sylviasaint,
Her memory for faces is sort of uncanny and she remembers his easily enough. Places him here, remembers his face the way it is now: lit red and blue by the collateral light of the many, many neon signs that only serve to add to the kitsch. She remembers him outside, too. He’s a smoker. She avoids him and the people he’s usually talking to and smokes alone by her car. He’s social, unsurprisingly. He’s handsome and has an easy charm. She wonders, idly, how many girls that line has worked on. She’d never admit out loud the way the compliment makes her stomach sort of – flutter. It feels a little bit like losing when she has to lower her gaze, flustered but contained. It’s been a long time since anyone complimented her, frankly. Sure, when she gets dolled up she’s pretty enough to glance twice at but these days she practices a purposeful plainness. She’s trying to go unnoticed. There is something appealing in having been noticed anyway, even if it is by a boy who’s young enough to be her son. For a moment she considers telling him just why it is she thinks he might have recognized her but it is so nice not to be known. Perhaps people are forgetting her. Or maybe he just doesn’t watch the news. “I was – being sarcastic.” Lies easily, voice flat as she finally resumes eye contact. A hand goes to cover her work, a little protectively. “That’s a good line.” Terse smile and a small nod – she’s trying to remain impassive. “You ought to save it for someone your own age.” Softly reprimanding but she can’t help the way she gives him one last once over, almost marveling at just how perfectly he’s cultivated the look of the quintessential Bad Boy, Small Town Heartbreaker. He’s like a character in a novel. It endears him to her.
hector isn’t easily dissuaded. rejection isn’t unknown to him, not everyone is charmed by curls and a mischievous grin, and he’s rather well known around town for being an absolute cad, but a simple brushoff doesn’t deter him so quickly. no, he’s persistent like a gnat, and something tells him this woman isn’t as irritated with as she’s acting. he might even swear she’s blushing if the neon lights buzzing on the walls didn’t turn everything into a soft red glow. “oh, i’d never lie to a beautiful woman.” which is exactly a lie, he tells the most lies to beautiful women, and every other person he comes across. sometimes he doesn’t even know what’s the truth anymore. his head cocks as he leans his elbow onto the bar top, ear and shoulder touching as his gaze travels appreciatively over her. the cad that leers, george wickham in jeans and ratty band shirts. “well, my mama said it’s rude to ask a woman her age,” he’s lying; he doesn’t remember much of anything about his mother except that she loved him and he didn’t love her back. not enough, anyway. “but you don’t seem all that much older than me.” hector can’t actually tell her age, though she’s clearly at least in her mid thirties, and he lifts his beer bottle for a swig that says: look, i’m old enough to drink—barely! the beer has gone warm in his hands and he grimaces slightly as he drags it away, the glass making a clattering sound as it lands on the bar. if it isn’t obvious that he has no intention of leaving (unless she really tells him to fuck off), his glance towards her work and his subtle shift to get a look at the papers probably makes it clear. “what’re you working on?” something to do with that fuckin’ lake, probably—there’s always someone lurking around, trying to find out if those thomians actually drowned themselves or what really happened to those campers back in the eighties, trying to solve a mystery that the rest of the world forget, if they even knew about in the first place. hector thinks it’s all bullshit, he’s worked at the campgrounds for a bit over a year and he’s never seen any ghosts. of course, he’s usually high when he’s working, but when is he not? “let me guess, you’re writing a book on the local conspiracy that this place waters down its cocktails?”
