( to the last drop . )
@jcnahgd
Stephanie’s not sure how she’s ended up in a bar, but she’s here nonetheless, perched up on a bar stool, legs crossed while her fingertip glides up and down the stem of her wine glass -- a Merlot, French, nineteen eighty-something. She’s never been a big fan of wine, but she’d scanned the menu, spotted a familiar label, and so here she is, drinking her mother’s favourite.
When her first glass is empty, Stephanie watches the bartender pour her another, a river of red cascading down the edge of the glass, pooling and collecting until it is half full. She blinks slowly while her drink is poured; she’s not tired, or sleepy, just a little... subdued, not because anything was lacking, but more so because things had become a little monotonous.
Absentmindedly, she scratches an itch on her cheek before she’s reaching out for the glass and takes a sip. Nothing fancy. There’s a faint imprint of her lips on the rim, courtesy of her lip balm, and somewhere in the back of her mind, she registers that her back is a little cold, but she makes no move to put her blazer back on.
A chair scrapes against the hardwood floor somewhere in the distance behind her, and it is instinct that has Stephanie turning her head just a fraction towards the sound. Her eyes remain distant and void though, and soon enough she’s forgotten about it altogether; instead, her gaze begins to trace clean and crisp lines in black ink on the arm of a stranger a few seats away.
Stephanie doesn’t realise she’s staring; she’s too focused on sharp angles, and uninterrupted curves, and the myriad of thoughts swimming around in her head like disoriented fish.