the hand on her waist is damp with the condensation from his beer glass / uncomfortably warm despite the temperature of his drink. it’s hard enough to indicate no accidental grazing ( not that she’d ever let that be forgiven, either. ) the bar is ruckus with music and laughter, the rough and rumble of a crowd not exactly welcome in high society; even half an hour inside, she can’t figure out if the place is cutthroat, or merely lively.
it had been close to two months since she’d opened the clinic / six since she’d moved to dublith. in all that time, she’d hardly ventured past the local market, the hospital, the contractor; exploring hadn’t been high on her list, and her school friends in the area had seen a few hours of her at most, snatched over weeks of work. they’d succeeded at last in dragging her out after a particularly delightful day no new cases of sickness or injury / the medicine cabinet full / her rent paid with a little left over. the bar chosen had been, in their own words, dodgy, but the drinks were strong and the music was good, and it hadn’t taken much further needling to get her to agree.
she had arrived early ( a full hour early, as she’d find out later ) but that was fine; it gave her a chance to take in the atmosphere / register the clientele. there were familiar faces scattered about, vaguely registering as prior patients or townspeople she’d seen out and about, but most were unknown to her. a large couch dominated the left side of the room, and a bevy of women her mother would have disdained as loose were giggling on the leather seating. it was a marvel they weren’t freezing, actually, considering they were dressed in scraps of cloth that stretched the definition of clothing; sakura spent several moments observing them, dismayed at the small pit of envy deep in her chest. they looked so ... carefree. not a real worry in the world.
of course, while she was distracted, the man with the sense of entitlement had decided to slip his palm across her waist; then, outrageously, he had dipped his fingers under the hem of her skirt, and went to cop a feel.
she had meant to slap him, and a good portion of her palm had landed on his cheek; the problem was that her fist had apparently decided to form halfway through, and she ended up slugging him to his knees. there was an ache in her wrist from the poorly executed punch, but she paid little mind to that when her unwanted companion stumbled backwards the music continued and most of the patrons were ignoring the fracas, but more than a few were watching, and her entire back was prickling with the sudden terror of being in danger.
❝ pervert! what the hell do you think you’re doing?! keep your hands to yourself !!! ❞
@avadite
