Habits of my heart
with @elenamgilbert
Elena, singer, likes Liv, bartender.
Elena:
She’s a walking stereotype. Elena’s thought about it before. An indie singer with a low, crawling, raspy mezzo soprano who likes skinny jeans, chucks, and writing about her feelings in elaborate, metaphorical ways? She plays that part all too well–not that she’s particularly concerned. Rather unremarkable, as well, she’s more engrossed with the piano and with word-crafting. One can argue she was born to do exactly this, or that she’s the reason for the rule, et cetera. Either way, she’s at another bar on a Saturday night (much to her agent’s chagrin), determined to lie low with the people she enjoys most. Though she has a label and a following, she tends to deviate from tour life. She enjoys the smaller venues, the intimacy of the bar setting. It also doesn’t hurt that this bar in particular has one the most beautiful bartenders she’s ever seen. The moment Elena and her band walk in, Elena’s got her eyes on the curly-haired blond bartender who looks like she could beat the shit out of someone who would then promptly and with the utmost respect, thank her.
There’s some downtime before she needs to be at the soundcheck, so she makes her case for a little R&R at the bar, and her bandmates disperse amongst themselves. Meanwhile, Elena makes a casual beeline straight for the cute bartender, trying her best to appear nonchalant, but failing miserably as she is so often wont to do. She’s terrible, at best, around attractive women. (At her worst, she’s downright embarrassing.) But, she digresses.
“On a scale from one to ten,” she begins as she deposits herself onto one of the stools, jaw working at a piece of gum that she wishes she’d discarded almost an hour ago. “how lame is it if I come crawling to the bar for a glass of water?” One eyebrow ticks up while the right-side corner of Elena’s mouth hints at a smile.
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Liv:
“What time do you get off? And… what time do you want to get off?”
The boy at the bar looks like his mother still irons his shirts for him. No, he looks like his mother has his clothes dry cleaned for him and delivered to the world’s most embarrassing frat house. Really, Liv would be insulted is it wasn’t so completely hilarious that he thinks she might stoop to… but he is serious!
She laughs out loud, and has to cover her mouth, rinse her hands before she starts lining up shot glasses.
Elena slips in the door, and Liv tries not to look up.
“I’m not even going to joke about the circumstances under which you might every get your hands on me,” she says, pouring tequila. “It’s just never going to happen. And by the way – if you’re thinking about sitting up the back there guffawing through the upcoming performance – I’ll advise you to drink the fast, settle your tab, and find somewhere else to drink.” She smiles sweetly, for about a second, and drops it again. “And don’t forget the tip. Twenty-vive percent, since I didn’t make a crack about penis size.”
Clean down the bar, run another load of dishes, double check the speed rack, basically do anything but stare at Elena, who has just sat and the bar.
Liv smiles, and pulls down a hurricane glass.
“Scale of one to ten – usually I’d give you an eleven.” Some ice, and nice cold water, twist of lime peel just because it’ll take a moment. And a mermaid hanging off the side, under an umbrella. “But I guess you get a pass, since you’re on the job.”
For now. Liv votes gin and tonic later on. Several of them. After the bar has closed, and the cash registers are reconciled are done, and she’s sent everyone else home.
She sets the water down like a cocktail, with a very suggestive wink, and starts polishing glasses, pointedly looking anywhere but at Elena’s hair. So of course she ends up looking at the flyer standing on the bar.
“Cute photo. I always look like I’m planning to kill someone in photos. I don’t know why.” Sigh, polish, rinse, repeat. “We’re expecting a big turnout. You need me to show you the green room or can you still remember from last time?”
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Elena:
Elena does little to hide her interest. Then again, she’s always been a horrendous liar. There’s something about brown eyes and their inability to hide secrets, she supposes (but that’s just the easy way out). As the drink is placed in front of her, Elena thinks that she probably winks, but doesn’t dwell on the possibility for to long—lest she want to curl up into a ball and die, because who even does that anymore?
Her, apparently.
“You? Murder?” Elena scoffs as the glass touches her lips, still amused at the very idea of it. This is obviously not because she thinks Liv incapable, of course. After all, Elena had shown up just seconds following a grievous murder in the first degree of whomever that sad fellow who’d been barking up her tree was. Rest in peace, Mr. Blue Balls.
“If I lie and say I don’t remember just so you can show me again, does that make me better or worse than the guy who just tried to pick you up?” the corners of her mouth twitch up. She’s feeling bold today, a sentiment she can only chalk up to the pre-performance adrenaline. Elena is otherwise useless around attractive women. “Kidding,” she swirls the ice around in her water, watches the lime peel rock back and forth. Elena rolls her lips together, dark eyes on Liv once more.
“But who knows? Maybe I’ll get lost after the show,” the suggestion hangs in the air between them only briefly as Elena produces gratuity, which she leaves in her wake. Sure, water is free, but Liv’s time isn’t. If Elena knows anything it’s that bartender’s deal with enough assholes and spend the vast majority of their time skating the line between compulsory kindness and an impulsive for grievous assault.
Elena shows herself to the green room and begins her usual pre-show routines. She’s rather calm, despite her issues with anxiety, and when it comes time for the performance, she’s settled into that easy swagger, encourage by the subtle gaze of a certain, beautiful bartender.
The set is a mixture of slow, sultry, gothic tunes and faster-paced melodies with darker implications. Elena’s voice is a lower mezzo soprano with more alto inclinations; there’s a slight drawl to it, leaving it with a rustic, earthy exposure. By the end of her performance, it’s clear why she hadn’t chanced the aid of alcohol. The adrenaline is more than enough to intoxicate her, drawing out the lascivious persona of the alternative indie singer with numerous undisclosed issues with relative ease.
All the while, her eyes can’t seem to stay away from Liv Parker (a name she’s collected from a band-mate whom she enjoys coercing into doing her harmless, somewhat hilarious dirty work).
By the time, the crowds disperse and after conversing with several attendees, she makes a point to linger near the bar, eventually finding herself at a stool herself. The adrenaline remains, but she’s got a taste for something a little stronger, now.
“So, inquiring minds…” she trails off, once Liv is in ear-shot. “Are you more of a bourbon and whisky kind of girl, or maybe… a gin and tonic? You don’t strike me as a wine type. Though, I don’t think you’re against it, either.“
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Liv:
It’s the age-old question: are you flirting with me? And the age-old follow-up: also, do you flirt with everyone? Impossible to come out and actually ask, but when Elena is batting those criminally long eyelashes at Liv, Liv gets kinda stupid. It’s annoying.
“I don’t think anyone’s as bad as that guy,” she says. Also, she will cheerfully show Elena the green room, with privileges, if she likes. “But I think he’ll stick to trolling 4Chan for a while, until his ego builds up again.” She is, admittedly, slightly pleased Elena heard that.
Just show her to the fucking green room, Liv.
But she’s gone, leaving Liv’s obnoxious heart beating slightly fast in her wake.
The gig is superb, of course, but Elena always is. Liv thinks to herself that it’s not going to be long before they can’t book her, in a place this small, anymore, but it’s a horrible thought and one she doesn’t entertain long. They get busy, between sets; she has two competent bartenders on tonight and the six hands work tirelessly, though there is very little trade while she’s actually playing, because contrary to available evidence, the entire clientele are not uncultured swine.
“She keeps looking at me,” says Australian Alf, so named because he was christened Alfred by unflinchingly cruel parents, and is Australian, with an accent so thick Liv can’t even understand him when he’s drunk.
“No, she’s not,” she says.
“It’s my accent. Works on all the ladies.”
“Trust me, it doesn’t,” she says, ignoring his disappointed horror, and gets back to polishing glasses.
––
A glance at the clock; it’s midnight. She’ll have to close out the tills but the boys can manage the dwindling customers. Liv gives Elena a smile, and unties her apron, folding it and dropping it on the end of the bar.
“I drink whatever’s free,” she says. “But if it’s up to me, definitely whiskey. Not Scotch. Irish or bourbon, mostly. Don’t mind a gin and tonic, in the summer. Wine’s alright.”
“So what can I get for you? I can usually guess. You seem to keep me guessing, though.” She tilts her head, and examines the speed rack, and the shelves behind her. “Whiskey sours,” she says, and reaches for a couple of lemons, deftly slicing them in two to juice. In a handful of moments, she’s made two ever-so-slightly dirty whiskey sours, and placed one in front of Elena.
She pulls up a stool, and sits kitty-corner to her favorite songstress. She is going to figure her out tonight.
“You were amazing,” she says, raising her glass to clink gently against Elena’s. “But then, you always are. Go away, Australian Alf. Find someone else to bother. Shoo.” She takes a sip, and puts the glass back on the bar.
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Elena:
While Liv may or may not realize it, it is indisputable that she has Elena utterly captivated. The sad thing is, Elena can’t even chalk it up to performance adrenaline or alcohol. She’s just looking at this girl—this beautiful woman—and all she can think of is all the sloppy, unoriginal one-liners she wants to use on her and all of the truly heinous acts she wants to commit to and with her.
Typical Elena.
“Perfect,” she doesn’t object to Liv’s drinks of choice nor the selection decided for them. (Honestly, though, Liv could have said, ‘here, drink this piss water’ and Elena would have asked for that with a second of pickle juice—the poor sap.) Tucking some of her own hair behind one ear, she raises her glass to collide lightly with Liv’s.
“Thank you,” there’s a genuine smile that follows, humor igniting behind her eyes as Liv bats away a heart-eyed coworker. “Oooh. Another suitor?” she teases, knowing full well that isn’t the case. Not that she thinks Liv has any lack for suitors, of course. On the contrary, Elena imagines she herself is one of many.
“I love playing here,” she elaborates, swirling her drink casually in its glass. “Something about the atmosphere, the people…” Elena trails off purposefully, lips cradling the rim of her drink again so that she can take another sip. A certain look passes from her to Liv, and while she’s not sure how obvious it is, she can only hope that Liv is privy to it. At this point, Elena’s played here so many times, her band’s all but threatened her to go on strike if she doesn’t make a move on the gorgeous bartender that Elena just can’t seem to stop talking about.
“It’s always nice, too… seeing you.”
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Liv:
“Australian Alf is under the mistaken impression that he can have any girl he lays eyes on; he’s got some idea that accent cancels out the floppy hair. I’ve told him repeatedly it doesn’t, but his self-esteem is bullet-proof.” Sometimes, she envies him that, but mostly, she just finds him annoying.
Liv sips her whiskey sour, pleased beyond all reason that it is perfectly balanced and definitely just the right amount of dirty.
If this was anyone else, Liv would stop questioning her instincts. She’s no stranger to being flirted with, though most attempts end with some poor sap cradling his balls in a jar of ice and wondering what the hell just happened to him. But Elena is, as the kids would say, low-key famous, and it’s not exactly the norm for Liv to catch the eye of anyone whose gorgeous, smiling face might grace a poster that would turn heads in a record store.
(There is, in fact, a poster in the record store down the street that Liv can’t walk past without cartoon birds showing up to provide a soundtrack.)
It’s not as if this is the first time Elena has shown her some attention, either. And yet. Liv might be brash, but her self-esteem isn’t what it once was; possibly due to the overall derailment of her life and intentions.
“Are you flirting with me, Elena Gilbert? Or am I having an Australian Alf moment? See, I’m a little rusty, and I also get stupid when I see a pair of big brown eyes. It seems improbable, but not impossible. I do have some very perky… curls, and I make a mean whiskey sour.” Her tone is dry, but her heart is racing. It’s not exactly a blush, but she feels a warmth over her cheeks, the back of her neck, her décolletage; she glances at Elena, and back at her drink, and then commits herself to eye contact.
“Because,” she says, sweeping her eyelashes up very deliberately, “if you are flirting, then I’m about to start flirting back.”
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Elena:
“It’s okay. One day he’ll flirt with the wrong girl, and she’ll set him straight. It’ll be brutal. Probably savage. It’ll be a shame that we won’t have front row seats,” Elena begins to imagine the moment, setting the scene with ease in her head. He’d approach some woman who’s clearly a solid nine out of ten (and that’s just being modest), and she would destroy him from the bottom up. He’d walk out of that conversation not even a half-quarter of the man he arrived as.
A smile presses onto her mouth, and she dispels the imagery from her mind’s eye. This leads her eyes back to Liv, where they are more than happy to rest, quietly indulging in a bit of casual appreciation. (Elena does what she can not to stare too hard, but damn it if Liv doesn’t make this extraordinarily difficult.) Truthfully, Elena’s lucky she doesn’t forget where her mouth is every time she brings her drink to it.
But just as quickly as she thinks she’s being halfway decent at flirting, Liv’s onto her (or, probably, has been this entire time). She has to laugh out loud, because it’s so funny. Elena has to have known better. When it comes to women, she’s hopeless—always has been. Women like Liv? She may as well be catching streams of water with her hands in the dark.
“Maybe a little,” she confesses guiltily, eyes diverting to other places as she considers what angle she should take this. Honesty seems like the best route. “Or a lot. Depends on… which makes me look like less of a dork.” Her eyes meet Liv’s again, and her heart does something funny. It almost feels like a palpitation, but it’s nicer and without the ‘I’ve just missed a step at the top of the stairs’ anxiety.
This is, of course, until Liv’s batting her eyes and suggesting that the flirting can, maybe, become a two-way street. Then, there Elena goes, face-first down a flight of stairs. Liv could have asked her to do anything in this moment, and she would have down it without hesitation.
“In that case,” she decides to use a brief moment of bravery to pursue this endeavor. “What are your thoughts on laser tag, video games, and chili cheese fries? Not necessarily in that order.”
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Liv:
“He flirts with the wrong girls every day, gets his ass served to him, and goes back for more. I’ll say this for him, though, you tell him to get lost and he does.”
That laugh. Liv would like to make Elena laugh like that every day. She shakes her head, and takes another sip. “Maybe I like dorks,” she says, with a shrug. “It’s nice to know someone like you can be a dork, trust me.” Now Liv sounds like a dork. Not too fussed about it, though. Elena looks so sincere, and so fucking pretty it’s hard to look at her without just leaning in for a horribly premature and probably very awkward kiss. The bar is emptying, but it’s not empty.
Liv’s main approach to flirting, her entire life, has been to tell everyone, no matter what she thinks of them, that she wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole, and then let the ones who survive that court her very fucking slowly and respectfully. But she doesn’t want to do that here. She pretends to think, and takes a deep breath.
“Chili cheese fries are disgusting,” she says, “but tasty, and addictive. I love salt. As long as they’re not crazy hot; I’m not as tough as I make out.” It’s true. No point in pretending or she’ll have a repeat of the habanero sauce incident of 2013, and no one could survive that humiliation twice. “Video games are good, as long as it’s not sports, because what’s the point of that when you could go outside? Give me hot elf warriors or zombies to shoot at, I’m happy. Laser tag is a definite yes. But not paintball. Those things sting.”
She tilts her head and catches Elena’s eyes again.
“Alright, two can play at this game.” She’s about to throw in stand-up comedy as a foil, because she hates it, but skips right past because she’d have to be drugged and chained up to be dragged to a stand-up show. “Bowling, in completely unironic bowling shirts and rented shoes, the aquarium, and breakfast in bed? Specifically waffles with bacon and maple syrup, but I’m flexible.”
~complete~
