[ Mason Hartley ] 203 main st in lafayette. don’t get lost cause I’m also directionally challenged 😊
her thumbs are poised over the keyboard, blue message lighting up the haphazard cracks in her phone’s screen. she’s loitering outside the establishment, half-listening to the various groups of people outside smoking, chatting, messing around. there’s a couple clinging to each other, mouths pressed together as they lean casually against a lamppost. and dolores can smell grapes in the air with each puff of smoke some guy, clad in an aviator jacket, long hair tied up in a bun and eyes leering, blows from his pen. she types out a message — I’m here — before deleting it and raising her hand to her mouth, preparing to nibble on her nails until she consciously stops herself from doing so. the guy — a stranger — with the bun offers her a hit and she looks at him shortly, gives an uh thanks i’m good, before shoving her phone into her bag and heading inside.
she always felt foolish wandering around looking for familiar faces, and she feels foolish now. it’s generously loud, warm and crowded, as she — standing at a mere five feet and three-and-a-half inches — raises to her toes, neck craning to see if she could recognize anyone and make a beeline for them. she doesn’t. and after sucking in a breath, dolores sets her sights on the bar instead. at least a drink could ease the ball of anxiety that’d formed in her gut; its origins unknown. after they’d bid their temporary goodbyes on set, she’d gone back to her trailer to change out of her character’s wardrobe, wash her makeup off, then reapply mascara and a few thin strokes of eyeliner before finally figuring out a means of transportation to three palms — all while taking frequent breaks to scroll twitter and sip on a whiteclaw. she’d even contemplated bailing on the plans. it’d taken getting lost down the wrong cross street and choking down an antacid before dolores finally showed up.
halfway to the bar she hears her name being called and she searches for its source. though she’s unable to immediately locate it, dolores does spot mason — really, spots his shoulders and the back of his head first, seemingly looming over surrounding patrons — and she opts to head there. nearing the bartop, she tugs down her hoodie ( star wars, the original trilogy, raw-hemmed and cropped by yours truly, a comfort piece of clothing ) and she smiles, shoulder brushing against him. and mason — true to himself as ever — greets dolores enthusiastically, and a laugh emits through her nose. ❛ i made it… ❜ she remarks, tone decidedly casual. her gaze wanders, taking in the arcade’s vibe. ❛ sorry that it took me a little while. y’know, directionally challenged, ❜ her voice playfully directs to mason, stopping as a bartender pops open a bottle to slide it over. dolores requests a paloma then, after a second’s hesitation, two tequila shots. to her present company, she straightens, expression shifting to something more upbeat, ❛ do one with me, yeah? then we’ll go… play something, or whatever. ❜
Casual — it suits her, more than the heavily curated wardrobe the costume designer selected for their characters. What can he say? — the film is gentle, muted, and the array of faded L.L. Bean flannels and thick khakis (though comfortable beyond compare) isn’t exactly his style. It’s clear from her sweatshirt she has her own flair as well, and the corners of his eye crinkle in amusement, wondering if she’d be the type to co-opt vintage clothing for fashion’s sake.
Mason decides not, tugging on the drawstrings, not unlike the way a schoolboy would to a young girl. “Wouldn’t have pinned you for a Star Wars fan,” he says, grinning. He’s one to talk, in his flashy Hawaiian shirt. “It’s all good. You’re here, and that’s what matters, right?”
He doesn’t even have time to protest before the tequila shots are ordered, set in front of him, almost as a challenge. So much for starting off slow, because he’d sooner be damned than let somebody else outdrink him (that competitive streak always has to rear its ugly head), and he salts the back of his hand, readying a lime in haste. “You think I’m the type of guy to turn down a free tequila shot? Come on, on the count of three...” And he counts, salt, shot, lime, in that exact order.
“Phew!” It’s been a while since he’s done a proper shot, the strongest thing he’d drank in the past few weeks had been expensive whiskey, straight from the bottle, but the head-dizzying tang of a relatively cheap tequila is no match for rich, full-bodied weight of a good Scotch. “All right, remind me not to do that again.” But already, he’s struck by the delightful buzz of the liquor. What was it about tequila that made it such a happy drink? (And staunchly on the other side, whiskey, the drink for sour old men, bitter despite their wealth.) He leans in, hands out and against the edge of the bar, head turned and cocked to the side. “I seem to remember you challenging me to a game of pool, y’know, if you’re still not chicken.”
