How long had she been sitting there? Natasha didn’t know. She doesn’t think she wanted to know, or else it would become painfully clear how much of her night she had wasted.
This wasn’t the type of place where she’d normally spend her Friday evenings, and truthfully, she didn’t have a clear explanation for what drove her there in the first place. Trying something new for the sake of it, maybe — but there was something familiar about this bar. Not familiar in the sense that she had been there before ( and of course not; on any other night, she wouldn’t even dream of stepping foot in such a dingy, loud, poorly-lit building ) but in the sense that there were thousands, possibly millions, of bars exactly like this and filled with exactly the same types of people she would find here. She took the shot of vodka — she had to represent, didn’t she? — she had been turning in her hand; it was her second one that evening, and it wouldn’t be her last.
And then she noticed a figure wandering across the bar, someone who doing an impressive job of blending in. ( Natasha was almost jealous. ) They weren’t attracting attention, no more than necessary, but they stood out bright and clear to her because Natasha noticed everyone. Her eyebrow rose in the tell-tale way that served as both a subtle hint and a warning that Natasha wanted to make everything a little more interesting, and she abandoned her shot glass — the only giveaway that she had been there and occupied that seat at all. With quiet, paced steps, she approached the figure, and stopped by their side. Glancing to them, she leaned forward to prop her elbows on the bar and spoke in her heavy, low tone.
“Good to see I’m not the only one who’s antisocial here. What’s your drink of choice tonight?”
