Ms. Wilder

Irene. 44. English Teacher. Those who live like this shall not inherit the kingdom of God.

[wyliegoodnight]

“Ah,” Wylie gave a solemn singular nod. “Grew up Baptist. – Luckily my parents were willing to overlook that stipulation so long as they recognized the name of the school.” The thought of ending up at Baylor nearly made him shiver.

’I don’t imagine you went to college.’

Wylie smirked. This woman really despised him didn’t she? She’d drawn up all these conclusions so quickly & yet, Wylie was in no rush to correct her view or get out ahead of any of the insults on her laundry list. Her initial statement, however, was amended quickly & Wylie nodded. “I went to Texas for a year on a baseball scholarship. West Point came a'knockin’ though & promised I’d be a starter, so I took the Army’s offer.” He rattled off the information. “It was strongly suggested that I didn’t go to the majors without going to college, but being roped into having to serve a minimum of eight years after graduation was fine,” He chuckled at that. He wouldn’t have changed the course he’d taken, the military suited him better than he would’ve thought, but anyone bitter about their child stopping to sleep on the ramifications of such a commitment was mildly entertaining to him. “So, you studied English. Then what? Some Green Peace type shit?” He asked, wetting his whistle with more bourbon until he could take it no longer & put his hand on her knee to stop her from bouncing her leg so furiously. It’d been driving him crazy the entire conversation. “Sorry,” He apologized preemptively. “You were saying?” He took his hand back.

[irenexwilder]

Of course he would've been a good church-going boy. His life was sickly picturesque -- - the kind of person Irene would have seethed quietly about in her high school years - -- but she was beyond caring about the past, save for the notion that people didn't really change all that much after they reached a certain age. The same girls who tormented Irene until she was forced to eat lunch in the girl's bathroom were still terrorizing anybody that they deemed beneath their station. They were smarter about it now, sure, but that didn't make it any less obvious. Wylie, she imagined, wouldn't be much different. Probably some burned out golden boy who assumed, sometimes incorrectly, that the world would give him whatever he wanted.

"We never actually went to church." Hateful musings aside, she'd let the confession slip out without thinking. "Not that Concordia knew the difference anyway." She'd written one impassioned essay after the other about her Christian convictions in order to rack up scholarships. Meanwhile, she comfortably lived in the shadow of God's judgment.

One thing she hadn't pegged him for was a military man. Maybe it was the lack of a buzz-cut and combat boots or the other standard fanfare of a washed up Lieutenant Colonel whateverthefuck -- - although Irene supposed he could have a stereotypically faded, ultra-American chest piece lurking beneath his shirt.

"I'll give you that you seem too sharp for the army. I can't imagine the instant gratification of being a starter was worth it." It couldn't all be verbal abuse and mean looks, could it? Her fingers strummed against her glass as he tried to figure her out. Just as she was about to speak, her breath caught at the feeling of his palm eclipsing her still-moving knee.

Was it fury that began to twist and knot at the base of her stomach, or something different entirely? Warmth exploded from deep within her chest, though she managed to keep her expression schooled to little more than a half-agape smirk. Bold move. And one that didn't stop the incessant sway of her foot initially. Instead, her heel lifted further, brushing up his calf with less ferocity than before. One pass upward and one pass down was all she gave before she was readjusting her position, crossing one leg over the other so as to orient herself just a little further away from him.

What was she saying?

"No Green Peace. But I'll take the compliment." She was sure it wasn't meant as such, but she plowed ahead -- - at least, if nothing else, she had stopped bobbing her foot. "My husband ran off with a coworker, so I got divorced and evicted." Why bother lying? "And now I'm here. Right back at home."

[liv-li-deactivated20230327]

It was the end of Liv's second week on the job and it was an end nothing short of chaotic. She knew about the assembly since Monday, but did not expect the amount of nosebleeds from kids horsing around and head-butting each other, or the milkbomb one of the kids threw from the top of the bleachers. The milkbomb was the most egregious and the true source of chaos. It effectively smoked out the gym and ended the assembly early. Liv had kids made sick from the smell of curdled milk and whatever else was in the cafeteria milk carton, and students caught in the splash zones queued up in need of a change of clothes all before the afternoon buses pulled away.

Which student threw the milkbomb was a mystery for now; Liv overheard the principals talking about security cameras and waiting to see if one of the kids would rat out the culprit on social media. She currently had a fan or two running in the nurse's office to help chase the spoiled milk smell away. Liv went to the breakroom because she needed another, stronger scent, to overpower the ones trapped in her nose. The ancient coffee machine growled while it brewed the strongest cup of coffee it probably ever made since someone plopped it on the counter. The sound almost blocked out the click-click-click of pumps and the squeak of the breakroom door. Liv looked up and drifted as far away as possible just in case she smelled, too. "Hi, Ms, Wilder," Liv said with a small, tired smile.

"Usually, I would have since it's Friday and I have places to go, people to see, and dogs to walk, but," she trailed off with a little shrug. "I assume you've heard about the assembly incident, so I had a final hour on par with the ER. Surprisingly," she added, then tilted her head. "And what about you? You don't strike me as someone who'd want autographs from the local improv group."

[irenexwilder]

Olivia wasn't the first former student to insist on calling Irene by her last name long after graduating Salt Flats High School. Still yet, she offered a gentle correction, "We're coworkers now, Olivia. You can call me Irene." Was her class really so intimidating? Was she such a harsh teacher? Yes. Irene couldn't imagine so. Then again...

Well, it was neither here nor there. Olivia was a nurse now, and she was beyond the grasp of Irene's authority.

"I did hear about the ... incident. Mr. Graham seems to think it was a senior prank." Irene wouldn't have been surprised, but she also couldn't find it in her heart to care. She hadn't been in the gymnasium, and therefore she had managed to bar her room from any milk-stained students from entering. They had been sent on their way summarily, without a second thought or glance. "I heard it's been a lot of blood and spilled milk on your end. You look like you survived, though. Anyone particularly guilty looking?"

While she talked, she poured her coffee, setting the first cup closer to Olivia's direction before taking up another for herself. "You don't smell, if that's why you're standing in the corner."

[coltonatwater]

Her own misfortune paled in comparison to the truth that the world had to keep moving forward, jettisoning everyone else forward as well whether they were ready or not. As she stood there, contemplating certain purchases - Logan saw herself getting swept up on failing to keep moving at the pace of everyone else.

She was ready to crawl back into her bed, let it cover over her for another day and try again tomorrow. But it seemed that she wasn't as invisible as she wanted, when her own voice spoke up at the familiar face whether she meant for it or not. "I've been better." But she most certainly had been worse.

It had been so many years ago, that it often felt like another life that she experienced the pain that she'd gone through except on the rare occasions that she found herself face to face with Irene. "How have you been? I haven't seen you around here recently, though.. I haven't been here much myself actually."

[irenexwilder]

Of course Logan had been better. It was a stupid question on Irene's part, but it was the only one that came to mind. She considered, for a moment, that perhaps she was better at listening to the problems of children -- - parents who didn't understand them, homework woes, the dramatics of prom - -- than anything far more serious. She was suited, it seemed, to the trivial things at the beginnings of adulthood. A real, genuine ache was not something she knew how to salve.

"I think that's understandable, given the situation." If it wasn't said in earnest, perhaps it would have come off as dismissive. Instead, Irene averted her gaze in the same way that people were so often accustomed to at a funeral. Look at the ground, grimace, extend condolences -- - it all came so naturally to someone who had barely been socialized as a child.

"Me?" Astounding. It really was astounding that Logan would even consider a near-stranger, considering the circumstances. "Ah, I'm well. The school year is half over. I'm counting the days until summer."

Rather than obsess over the price of eggs -- - something that seemed so stupid now that Logan was there as a physical reminder of more pressing grief - -- Irene paid the farmer and took her carton. "What are you here for? This is all I needed. I'll walk with you. We can catch up..." A beat, "If you like."

[nightshfts]

DEACON PULLS A FACE AT IRENE'S TAUNTING and sticks his middle finger up at her. that's about as much grace as he can offer the woman after a decade's worth of practice at family dinners and unannounced late-night drop-ins, and even then, deacon would say he's being generous. "oh, don't be such a pretentious bitch," he retorts when she refuses his offer and tosses the pack of camels at her, anyway. "nobody makes eggs the way they do - and that stupid, rat-faced cook knows it. he fuckin' knows it and was screwin' with me on purpose." his cigarette punctures the air for emphasis before it's returned to his mouth. "should've kept his fuckin' mouth shut."

[irenexwilder]

"I'd rather be a pretentious bitch than the burnout who's banned from Waffle House." She caught the cigarettes anyway. The packaging was immediately scrutinized as she rolled the pack over in her palm. "Camels. Classy."

Her disdain for the brand didn't keep her from shaking one of the smokes loose, plucking it up by the filter before tossing it back Deacon's way. After the filter found her mouth with practiced ease, Irene extended her hand again, flexing fingers as if it say give it here, "Lighter."

It had always been something of a curiosity to Irene that Deacon had managed to be the only man in town banned from a diner that was notorious for its lack of standards. If he had been anyone else, she might have called the feat impressive.

"Yes, of course. I'm sure that cook had it out for you in particular." Sarcasm dripped around the filter of her still-unlit cigarette, "What was it, again? Did you two get into a fight? I can't quite remember. I don't think I was listening the first time." When was she ever?

[wyliegoodnight]

She didn’t have to squirm for him to know he’d struck some sort of nerve. “Salt Flats,” He repeated, eyes floating up as he tried to place her amongst the students there. But she was grades below & went to the rival high school. Goodnight, in his own right, had been a bit of a stud back in the day. Hot shit so to speak. As important as you could get in small towns where sports were king. He was well liked, a scouted lefty, & had a car by fifteen. There weren’t more boxes to tick as a teenager. It also didn’t hurt that everybody knew about the JA or that the town Wylie grew up in carried his surname.

His brow rose at her assertion that he was right. He took a sip to celebrate. “Without a doubt,” Wylie assured her. Whether or not he was being condescending was hard to discern. “As one of those bumpkins, I can attest.” He confirmed with a genuine smile that shown no teeth. “So then, where’d you go off to school to?” He imagined that, like himself, she’d left to some university as soon as it was prudent to do so. “I’d guess, but I’m already two for three.”

[irenexwilder]

Under the microscopic scrutiny of Wylie Goodnight, Irene could do little more but frown when he repeated the name of her alma mater. Any attempt to resist spiting venom or vitriol were ignored. Abandoning the high road was the most natural thing in the world, and came in the form of tapping her glass against the bar and nodding a singular time, “That’s what I said.” She needed the last word just as badly as she needed water or oxygen.

The next sip of whiskey came with the bitter aftertaste of future regrets. As her shoulders loosened their tense posture and her foot stopped keeping time with the beat of her heart, Irene could relax and appreciate that — - for some ungodly reason - — the man beside her seemed unfettered.

Still, she didn’t smile — - not really - — and she would fall on her sword before giving any indication of having any interest in their conversation.

“Concordia University.” In her defense, she ~apparently~ hadn’t moved to a town that was rich in higher education opportunities. “It was very important to go to a Christian school.”

Her gaze passed over him again, trying to size him up. “I don’t imagine you went to college, did you? No, wait — - of course you did. You couldn’t have played ball if you hadn’t.”

[nightshfts]

closed starter for @irenexwilder, outside the waffle house, late evening.

"EVERYBODY SAY 'HEY, MISS WILDER'..." deacon says by way of announcing his presence, and irene's, to the near-empty parking lot of the waffle house. it's too late for dinner and too early for breakfast, so he's sitting on a parking block with a cigarette in his hand and a cloud in his eyes. not to mention, he's been 'banned' from entering the premises, though this isn't his first stint being on an establishment's shit list - they'll come around, eventually. they always do. "need a little nicotine with your caffeine?" unlikely that irene had coffee at this hour, but hell, he doesn't know her life. and, as it turns out, neither did his brother.

[irenexwilder]

Almost a decade ago, Irene would've put on her best polite-society smile and laughed Deacon's absurd manner of greeting off. Internal seething would have been masked with a well-placed wave of her hand, and a too-sweet comment about how wonderful it was to see him again.

Now?

Now, Irene didn't even bother hiding the way her eyes nearly rolled out of their sockets. She had dropped the facade of niceness within three years of knowing the man. Even if she hadn't, there would've been no use in trying to pretend as if she hadn't ruined his older brother's life. At least with Deacon, she didn't have to pretend to care at all.

"Poor, poor baby Slater. Barred from crossing the threshold of the Waffle House." An impressive feat, to say the least. Apparently, however, he wasn't banned from loitering and smoking. His offer was waved off, "I'm trying to quit." Lies.

"I'm surprised they let you within a half mile of this place. There are other places to eat in this town. You know that, right?"

[coltonatwater]

who: @irenexwilder where: farmer's market

Weekly trips to the farmer's market had become scarce in the past year, having her entire life change once she started to see Tyler and fall into a different rhythm with him by her side. She didn't see the need to visit as often as she used to do when on her own, but things had changed all over again. Now the early mornings on her days off were harder than ever to handle on her own as she shuffled through the thinning crowd towards a vendor and noticed the one other person who was shopping as well. Irene. "Hey," she spoke up after a moment as she picked up a jar of honey before setting it back down. "It's been awhile."

[irenexwilder]

If Irene had known in her teens that a significant portion of her adult life would be spent mentally bitching about the price of organic eggs, she would've considered enjoying her youth a little longer. She hadn't ever accounted for standing in front of a splintering table at the farmer's market, listening to some half-illiterate local droning on about his brood of hens. This wasn't the exciting, adventurous life she had wanted for herself. Majoring in English had been a phenomenally stupid decision. Maybe if she had been a pharmacist, she wouldn't have to mull so carefully over the price of fucking eggs.

Her economic ruminations were broken seconds before she set herself on a winding mental spiral that would overshadow the rest of her day. It was hard to think about groceries when a barely-familiar voice was addressing the back of her head.

"Hey..." The response was far too stifled, far too awkward for Irene's taste. Who could blame her, though? The last time she had seen Logan... Well, it had been under far different circumstances. "It has been a while. How... have you been? You look well." All things considered.

[carter-wang]

Open Starter @saltflatsstarters

Where: Farmer's Market

Beta Editor

"I usually wouldn't ask, but I'm kind of at a loss here: what would you pair with hydrangeas?" Carter asked. When it came to flowers, he knew hydrangeas were easy enough to revitalize -- you just had to dump water on them according to Faye. The problem was the rest of the blooms sitting in their buckets of, what was probably close to freezing, water. Some of them looked like they had seen better days. Carter frowned a little at the sight. "I'm trying to do something nice for my fianceé, but the weather's kind of ruining the spontaneity," he said with a light laugh.

[irenexwilder]

Do I look like I know anything about flowers?

The thought comes and goes in an instant. An impulse to belittle or insult had been born in her late twenties and had, thankfully, run its course by her mid-thirties. Still, the specter of the unfortunate evolution of her personality still lingered. She could feel, in the fraction of a second before she managed to reframe the stranger's intention, her jaw set and her lips press into a thin line. For a fleeting moment, Irene was every bit a disappointed teacher who had been interrupted on their planning period.

The ripple of negativity came and went, replaced by arched brows, a patient-enough smile, and a slow, meaningful nod.

"I'm not much on flowers," she cautioned. "But..." Despite the paltry state of the blossoms and foliage set before them, she somehow managed to find something of use. "Have you considered azaleas? I rarely water mine, but they're still blooming. Somehow."

[galgadotssss-deactivated2016071]

[anneboleyns]

[wyliegoodnight]

His eyes had averted to her at the coercion that he put the glass where he wanted it. Luckily, there’d been no time for him to react to that before the bartender had started to wordlessly start pouring. Despite the challenge issued, Irene did as Wylie had suggested & hid the glass in her lap. He was pleasantly surprised by this, though he didn’t show it.

He didn’t have the time to. She was already cutting him down to size again before the liquor could settle in either of their glasses. A small snort of laughter escaped Wylie at the dig. “You sure that’s what we were talkin’ about?” Wylie asked, shooting her a look before hiding his smirk in his whiskey. He was able to take all of one small gulp before his shoulders were bouncing with laughter. “You’re funny,” He said, tilting his glass ever so slightly in her direction. “You also seem to know a lot more about me than I do about you. For someone who holds the past in such low regard, you sure do bring up high school a lot,” Wylie observed, lifting his brows. “So did you go to Salt Flats or Claude?” Wylie asked, humoring the discussion as he propped an elbow up on the bar. “Nose in a book somewhere?” He guessed. She’d said she taught English hadn’t she? “Too damn smart for all these country bumpkins? Rather be dead than stay another minute in this town? Was that the deal?”

[irenexwilder]

He zeroed in on a minor insecurity with the precision of an adept marksman. Had she not been in the crosshairs, Irene might have been impressed. Instead, she was forced to wriggle her way out of his accusations. She did so by shifting her position, crossing one leg over the other and continuing to bob her suspended foot while she considered his assertion.

"Salt Flats."

The word was dry, unenthusiastic and tucked behind another sip of well whiskey. The game she had conjured suddenly wasn't nearly as fun when the spotlight was turned on her and she was forced to face herself in the mirror.

"I'm afraid you've got it all wrong." He didn't, not really. All of his assumptions were nearly correct, but Irene's countenance had hardened and she was left drawing circles around the rim of her glass with one manicured nail. "You were older than me. But I recognize the name. How could I not?" Without the hint of a smile, she dressed him down with her gaze. Her eyes passed over his frame, not once, but twice. "Who else would be named Wylie Goodnight?"

It was only then that she cracked a smile. "You are right, though..." Her voice lowered significantly, words caught in the bottom of a glass that was brought up to her lips once again, "I am better than the rest of these bumpkins."

[wyliegoodnight]

Did he remember? That’d been a long, long time ago. Truth be told, he did not, but saying so outright struck him as rude. Especially since she evidently remembered him. Wylie’s head quirked slightly to one side. It was just now occurring to him that she had indeed been fucking with him when he first drew himself over. Not only did she recognized him from the jogs, she knew the position he played in high school. He shelved the thought, sucking on his teeth. The taste test was at hand after all.

He didn’t gloat in his victory, he had more class than that. He’d just wanted it settled that he’d get her the goddamned drink & that he wasn’t so stupid as to not know what in the hell went into making a Manhattan. He watched as her fingers slid into the glass. He blinked twice, then picked up his drink & downed the last of it. Three bourbons down & a fourth would need to be coerced out of the bartender sooner rather than later.

“Not really,” Wylie admitted, his attention snapping back to her. “Oh, no,” He shook his head in a slow, condescending way. “No prizes. The satisfaction of knowing I delivered on a promise is just enough,” He assured her. “Unfortunately, however, I’m now dry & there’s no way in hell I’m gonna be able to reach the bourbon from here. So, darlin’, how about you put this under the bar,” Wylie advised in a low conspiratorial voice as he pushed her hand & the glass towards her person.

“Ma'am?” Wylie said, raising his voice to be heard of Waylon’s distant crooning. “Could I trouble you for another bourbon?” He asked, holding up his empty glass. “& rye for the lady,” He said, tilting his head toward Irene. Reluctantly, the bartender obliged but only because the man in the hat had taken his timeout with grace.

“Now what were we talking about?” He asked, turning back to the blonde, raising a brow at her perpetually kicking foot. “How surprised you are that a man so handsome could be so good at so many things?”

[irenexwilder]

No prizes. Hah. Irene wouldn't believe that for a second, but she did let her brows raise along with her pseudo-skeptical nod. "No prizes," she repeated, more for her own benefit than for his. "Good to know." Better to know, too, that he was slowly sinking into his glass and showed no signs of stopping. If luck followed her throughout the night, Irene would be nursing a hangover tomorrow and her bank account wouldn't be hemorrhaging from the consequences. Pathetic, she supposed, that it only took two fingers slipping into a glass of bourbon before he felt brave enough to encroach.

So, darlin', how about you put this under the bar?

Whatever he'd given her was stout enough for her to lean into his voice. "Don't call me darlin'," she matched his tone. Truth be told, she could've sneered if it hadn't been for the grin she chose to adopt instead. "Why don't you put it there yourself, if you're so concerned?"

Even before the words met the air, he had somehow called her bluff. As soon as Wylie called the bartender over, Irene's occupied hand dropped to sit the glass in her lap. She moved forward, keeping her knees firmly under the bar in front of her while he ordered his drink. It was only when the bartender's back was turned that she managed to down whatever was left in her own glass, surprised at the heady kickback that came before she discarded the receptacle far away from her person and flicked it even further with the tips of her fingers.

Another rye whiskey was in front of her before she could gather her bearings. The back of Irene's hand met her mouth, leaving behind the outline of lipstick that was summarily rubbed away once she grounded herself. What had they been talking about?

"I think we were talking about how you're clearly taking advantage of women who come to bars alone." One sharp breath through her nose preceded a long exhale through barely-parted lips. "Which, I assume -- - given your whole schtick here - -- you do more often than not. Is that what happens when you peak in high school? I wouldn't know, so I find it fascinating."

[wyliegoodnight]

‘Wylie’s an unfortunate name.’

Wylie’s jaw slid to one side, his teeth grinding on the way there. He nodded as his eyes rolled closed. “You could do a lot worse than Irene,” He assured her. Of course, one could do better than Irene, but that went without saying. Or he was just too polite to say it. Manners or not, he couldn’t hide his surprise when she cinched up her memory & threw his old high school position out. Now he was a step behind.

“You’re from 'round here?” Wylie asked on the tail end of a small chuckle. “That’s two strikes for me. SupposeI better stop guessing.” He’d have put money on her being from one coast or the other. & he’d have been a bit poorer for it.

“Probably not,” Wylie’s retort came without missing a beat. “I really took this seat to see if you’d co-sign a truck for me,” Wiley’s mouth stayed slightly agape at the joke before his glass found his lips once more. He tilted it back, looking over the rim at this paragon of good credit & taste.

“That’s alright,” Wylie said, holding the glass away from his mouth. “This is the best place to do it. I just gotta thank my lucky stars we aren’t outside or somewhere with better lighting,” He said, pulling a deep frown. “Oh, c'mon now,” Wylie waved her off. “We’re gonna get ya the Manhattan, but I can only manage one of ya at a time,” He said, passing his index finger idly between Irene & the brunette behind the bar who stood on the far end, still keeping her back to them. The latter bit he had to laugh at though, pushing his hat further down on his head as he did so.

“You doubt it huh?” Wylie clicked his tongue, looked at the back of the barkeep’s head & then stood on the rungs of his stool so he could grab the nearest glass & the bottle of rye. His eyes were wide as he kept look out for himself & poured an eyeballed couple of ounces into the glass. He put the bottle down, checked on the brunette, & had to really stretch to get to the bitters & vermouth. He dashed them into the glass, put the two bottles back haphazardly in the general location of where they’d been sitting & then clapped the glass down in front of Irene, taking his seat once more.

“Shit!” He stood up again to pluck a maraschino cherry out of the Solo cup they sat in. He popped it into the glass. “Maraschino’s the best we can do,” Wylie explained, plopping back onto his seat. From there he could reach a plastic fork in another Solo cup & he snagged one, sticking it in the drink & giving it a quick stir. “It’ll have to do,” He apologized for his lack of shaker. Thinking better of it, he grabbed another cherry & tossed it in his mouth & chewed happily.

[irenexwilder]

Was she from around there? It was only then that Irene's mouth cracked into a genuine smile, teeth exposed to the open air right before her lips found the rim of her glass. It would take a few moments of thought before she pulled away. "Oh, I was born and raised here." Her drawl became more prominent, bordering on camp. A pinky extended from the near-empty glass in her hands as she bled bitterness into the ice in front of her mouth. Once her glass found the bar, however, her hands rested primly on her knees. "Don't you remember?"

Of course he wouldn't. She was an underclassman, and a nobody at that. Irene had maybe seen all of five games in the entirety of her high school tenure. But he didn't need to know that, did he? She imagined, given his status and his age, that she could pretend to be anyone and he would go along with it.

She could've kept her charade up if he hadn't been bold enough to reach across the bar. Even Irene was visibly taken aback, eyes wide and shoulders tense. "Wait -- -" He couldn't just do that, could he?

Apparently so.

If she had half an inclination to be a narc, she would've flagged the bartender over or left her seat in favor of a safer booth. Instead, she relaxed as he went through each step of making a Manhattan, even going as far as to find the nearest cherry to plop in the glass. By the time he was done, she sat with one empty drink and a dumbfounded stare. "I-- -" It was rare, if ever, that she was caught off-guard by a stranger. Years of teaching children had prepared her for the worst, but this was a first. All she could think to do was sip the drink in front of her and grit her teeth at the execution.

"Well... That's certainly a Manhattan." Or the ghost of one, at any rate. It took no time at all for her to set aside the empty glass in favor of whatever Wylie had concocted. "I wouldn't be lauding your skills on Food Network, but it's something." It was something, that was for sure. All she could think to do was dip three slender digits into the glass, fish out the cherry and pop it in her mouth. "I know when I've been beaten."

She also knew when to back off if she wanted to keep mediocre cocktails coming her way, but that was neither here nor there.

"I hope that made you feel better about yourself." Circles traced across the lacquered surface of the bar in front of her as her foot kicked forward again, and again, and again. "Is this the part where you expect to win some sort of prize?"

[wyliegoodnight]

“That’s right,” Wylie nodded, setting his glass back on grain of the bar a hair shallower than it’d been when he’d picked it up. He was ready for it. You didn’t have the name Wylie for over forty years without knowing every joke & reference that could possibly be made by man. It was a stupid fucking name. If he’d been born a second later he’d be Wyatt. Wyatt wasn’t free from sin; it came with its own basket of corny jokes. There was the perpetual Tombstonereferences but it was a hell of a lot better than Wylie. The eldest brother got the Biblical name. Isaac. Now there was a name. The Goodnights had been Baptists since immigration in the 18th century. The twins were simply fucked. Probably on account of joining the world as a pair. It was their mother’s revenge.

“I do,” Wylie said, making a meal of the two syllables. “It’s Goodnight,” He said. There’d be no reprieve from this woman, he could feel it in his goddamned bones. He held up his hands in a mock surrender. Maybe she was actually a teacher. “I’d never suggest the opposite,” He promised her. “Will you be needing my middle initial & social next?” He asked, blinking dolefully, a slight lift to his chin.

“Now,” Wylie started, twisting his glass in a slow circle. “That we’ve established our morning routine, I can’t help but notice that you ain’t much of a regular here. Are we celebrating?” He asked, shooting her an imploring look from under his wide-brimmed cowboy hat. “Case could be made, of course, that you’re just thirsty. In which case, I’m glad I could oblige by at least pretending like I’m gonna get you that Manhattan.” He smiled broadly then, looking away from her slowly to see that the back of the bartender’s head was still to them.

[irenexwilder]

He wasn't going for it -- - the aloof bit, the lack of response, the disengagement. He was, instead, planting his heels in the sand and shuffling forward to the beat of his own drum. There was nothing she could do but respect his gumption, although she felt no reason to chase him as he waddled across the imaginary desert she had created of the situation.

"Wylie's an unfortunate name." But he knew that, didn't he? Even as she dragged one finger across her drink, she knew that he knew his name was unusual. How many times had he been made the ass end of an ill-placed joke? Probably as many times as she had. "Irene is, too, I suppose." It was the name for a grandmother or overbearing aunt -- - Irene wasn't the moniker for a little girl in the seventies. Then again, what did she know?

Wylie Goodnight.

"Ah," the syllable accompanied a slow, purposeful nod. "Wylie Goodnight. Pitcher." She could place him then, though not as he stood today. She remembered, foggily, the few baseball games she had been able to attend -- - the too-expensive lights, the decaying scoreboard, the smell of grass and chatter of her peers; and, of course, the players.

Wylie Goodnight. Pitcher. And a menace, as far as she was concerned.

"I'll take your social, but I'm sure your credit isn't as good as mine." Bold words for a woman sitting with a credit score of 612. Irene took another sip. Bourbon bypassed her vocal chords just as dimples pressed into shallow cheeks.

He was speculating; a guess about why she came to a bar to which she was clearly not a regular. "We aren't celebrating." It was a matter-of-fact statement as her ice swirled in her glass, pushed in a semicircle from the lazy twist of her wrist. "I just don't have anything to drink at home. And where else could I go to insult someone like you?" At least she was honest. She had been insulting, and she was well aware of the fact, but she flashed a too-genuine smile in an effort to see if it would make him stay. "I figured you weren't getting me that Manhattan, Mr. Goodnight. I doubt you know what it even is."

[irenexwilder]

salt flats high school 4:00 PM @liv-li

Truth be told, there were few things Irene hated more than educational assemblies. The disruptive nature of an end-of-day event was enough to knock nearly every student off their game. How was she supposed to expect a room full of teenagers to critically analyze Frankenstein when they had the promise of a paltry improv group teaching them about the woes of drug use? Neither Mary Shelley nor Irene Wilder could compete.

As far as she was concerned, the day was a wash before it even began. All she had to do was get to the finish line, make sure children were properly loaded onto packed school buses, and head back into the building for some last-minute planning. Truly a completely wasted day.

Her thumb and forefinger pinched the bridge of her nose as she walked, the click-click-click of heels bouncing off the concrete floors and walls. A cup of coffee. That's what she needed. Something to help her power through a few more hours.

Two sharp lefts led her to the breakroom, where she fully expected to have a moment of peace and quiet. Instead, she was met with someone else who had apparently ducked in for a reprieve in the form of stale coffee or whatever was left in an ancient vending machine.

"Olivia?" It wasn't a surprise to see her there, necessarily - Irene was well aware that she worked in the school - -- but it still took a moment before she set her jaw and made her way to the coffee pot. "I thought you would have gone home by now. I think the ... actors... are still in the auditorium, if you're waiting around for an autograph."

[wyliegoodnight]

Whatever victory that might’ve been had in getting this woman to place him had long since dissipated. “That’s right,” Wylie said, trying to be encouraging anyway. “I’m the guy with the dog.” That you see every morning, at the same exact time, at nearly the same exact spot. His tone was ironed flat. She fixed him with a look like she was appraising his identity, making sure his current self matched up to whatever see saw in those wee hours. He ignored the way it made him feel.

“A little,” He fired back. Maybe she looked like a banker. Real estate broker even more so. “It’s good to finally have a name to go with the face,” He said. “It’s nice to meet you, Irene. I’m Wylie.” He gave her a nod, then tilted his head ever-so-slightly at her drink of choice. Giving up the straight liquor for a cocktail so long as it wasn’t her dime. Seemed fair enough. “She probably won’t come back over here for an hour,” Wylie sipped from his glass. “I’d nurse that if I was you,” He said, nodding toward the bourbon in front of her. He spoke in the same matter-of-fact manner you’d expect from someone far from needing a fresh drink.

[irenexwilder]

She always had a keen sense for blood in the water. There was something electrifying about the air being sucked out of a man who clearly thought his advance would be met with more grace. That wasn't the case here, though. The Runner made every attempt to be convincing, even jovial, which was enough to give her pause. Few people would react well to being called 'the guy with the dog,' and yet here he was. Trying.

If she was ten years younger, she would've found it commendable. As things stood, however, she just nodded once and pressed her lips together in a tight smile. What kind of forty year old man interrupted a woman having a drink by herself, anyway? Didn't he have his own problems to drown at the bottom of a lowball glass? Maybe he was one of the few people in the world who were satisfied with her station, though Irene couldn't imagine a situation in which someone would run at four thirty in the morning if they weren't running from something.

"Wylie, huh?" Like the Coyote. Had she been a lesser person, she might have reached and grasped the low-hanging fruit. Instead, she arched a brow and considered the name.

"Do you have a last name?" There was no reason to give him any sort of satisfaction by admitting that she vaguely recognized him beyond running at the same time. However, Irene was pulled by her curiosity as she took another drink. The suggestion that she nurse what she had was waved off with a smooth flick of her hand, "I know what I'm doing, but thank you."

[wyliegoodnight]

“Perfect,” Wylie said, a smile commandeering the right side of his mouth as he pulled a leg over the barstool & sat down. The apology & subsequent question came just as the bartender had drawn herself over. “I–” Wylie started, doing a double-take at the blonde next to him. He’d been on the cusp of asking her what she was drinking so he could relay the order to the girl behind the bar. “Wait,” He started, holding up a finger to delay the bartender. “You– I see you every morning,” He stopped himself there, realizing the bartender might reach across the oak top & separate his finger from his hand. “Sorry,” He apologized to the bartender. He sucked in a breath, blinked then said all in an exhale “Can you come back?” The woman rolled her eyes & Wylie supposed he deserved that as he cocked his head to look at the blonde again. “You’re fuckin’ with me right? I mean I know it’s dark, but…” There was the very real possibility that she paid him no mind. Their eyes would meet. He’d usually smile in that way you do when you pass strangers. “You run right? In the mornings? Around city hall?” The more he talked, the more he figured there could not be a snowball’s chance in hell she didn’t know what he was talking about. He didn’t think he was anything special, but you pass the same person every day five days a week surely… “You’re a teacher?” Suddenly her latter question seemed to strike him awkwardly. He wasn’t sure what career he might’ve guessed, but teacher would not have been anywhere near his list.

It was all so easy to knock someone off the high ground. One well-placed apology and innocent question had the poor man in front of her wondering if he was crazy.

Irene, on the other hand, only slowly nodded. Yes, running. Yes, City Hall. Of course she knew what he was talking about. Nod, nod, nod. Yes, yes, yes. She diligently gave the impression of an adult who was catering to a particularly chatty child.

“I do run in front of city hall.” Had he not ushered the bartender away, she might have let him carry on for another ten minutes. It was only after she realized she would have to talk to him that she suddenly arose from her dementia and tried to place him. “Oh, you’re— -“ Slim fingers cut through the air in front of her, drawing upon words that didn’t exist. “You have the dog.” Yes, that was it. The man with the dog. That’s all he was, as far as he needed to know.

Anything for a free drink and the chance to entertain herself.

Irene leaned back and took a moment to size him up. He was different outside of his appearance in the wee hours of the morning, though she supposed he could say the same for her. Dark eyes narrowed as if to definitively place him before both her elbows found the wood grain of the bar.

“I am a teacher. English. Is that so surprising?” She didn’t care for the answer. That much was more than clear, even before she flicked her eyes between the stranger and the bartender. “It’s Irene. And I’ll take a Manhattan.”

[irenexwilder]

It was all so easy to knock someone off the high ground. One well-placed apology and innocent question had the poor man in front of her wondering if he was crazy.

Irene, on the other hand, only slowly nodded. Yes, running. Yes, City Hall. Of course she knew what he was talking about. Nod, nod, nod. Yes, yes, yes. She diligently gave the impression of an adult who was catering to a particularly chatty child.

“I do run in front of city hall.” Had he not ushered the bartender away, she might have let him carry on for another ten minutes. It was only after she realized she would have to talk to him that she suddenly arose from her dementia and tried to place him. “Oh, you’re— -“ Slim fingers cut through the air in front of her, drawing upon words that didn’t exist. “You have the dog.” Yes, that was it. The man with the dog. That’s all he was, as far as he needed to know.

Anything for a free drink and the chance to entertain herself.

Irene leaned back and took a moment to size him up. He was different outside of his appearance in the wee hours of the morning, though she supposed he could say the same for her. Dark eyes narrowed as if to definitively place him before both her elbows found the wood grain of the bar.

“I am a teacher. English. Is that so surprising?” She didn’t care for the answer. That much was more than clear, even before she flicked her eyes between the stranger and the bartender. “It’s Irene. And I’ll take a Manhattan.”