@thisiszamira
The Kennedys, she said. Charlie hadn’t forgotten. Though things had been hectic as of late as far as social events went (God knew he still couldn’t believe he had an almost boyfriend in the wings), he had a little memo taped up to his bathroom mirror reminding him: ZAMIRA. THE KENNEDYS. He’d see it everyday as he brushed his teeth and washed his face, once in the morning before leaving and once in the evening before going to bed. And everyday, he’d kick himself for taking so damn long to go.
So now here he was-- buttoned V-neck, jeans older than the Jurassic period, and a pair of rubbershoes that’d seen better days. Charlie had his sunglasses on, of course. He kept them on even when he entered the bar, hearing the music and the people and smelling the booze that flowed freely and the food that was most likely terrible for his health.
The only time he took them off was when he sat at the bar, his knuckles rapping gently at the countertop. Charlie had the smallest smile on his face, hooking his glasses in his shirt pocket as he caught Zamira’s attention where she worked. “Hey, yeah, can I get a goblin-sized iced tea? Hold the Long Island.”