crownejewels:
it’s a pretty hole-in-the-wall, out-of-the-way place, admittedly—sometimes daia likes to escape the bustle of nightclubs filled by young twenty-somethings, needs a place to just sit quietly and drink a vodka cranberry undisturbed. the princess has picked up on the staring, of course—she’s prepared to start with the polite smiling, the sorry, i’m not interested as always—he’s even walking over as if on cue, and her manicured hand stiffens around her cold glass. at least he has the decency to not be in her face.
“hello,” she murmurs back, the dim light of the neon signs not enough to skew her features too noticeably. daia peeks at the man ever so slightly, a gentle turn of her head that makes the glossy waves of her immaculately-styled hair bounce. her tone is neither hot nor cold, a happy medium. men in places like these usually want something she definitely can’t offer.
the salesman keeps his eyes fixed on her, a peaceful hidden smile lingering on his lips. he nods in recognition, tips his barely touched beer her way. it had been cold when he bought it, a pleasant gasp of bubbles as the bartender pried the top off. the glass is the same temperature as his hands. the liquid is flat. he looks at the spirits behind the bar and wishes he’d ordered something fruity. he takes a sip.
“what is it you’re drinking?” he keeps his body facing the bar, careful not to intrude on her space.
