Third and probably final instalment for OC Kiss Week, featuring @telvani‘s Lyra and my Reif. A sort of follow up to this
Glasses clink and idle chatter fills the air. Banal small talk about the latest fashion trends and who’s been sleeping with who not so surreptitiously and how delightful these canapés are you really must try one. Behind the chatter, music plays, the band under-appreciated as only a few couples lazily twirl their way around the dancefloor before returning to their inane prattle. (It’ll be a few more drinks before it livens up, and a few more still for it to become what you could truly consider a party). Every now and then a laugh cuts through the noise, obnoxious and loud. It’s the only honest thing on display this evening.
Reif smiles to herself as she takes in the room, sipping at her champagne that truly tastes awful, how is anyone drinking this swill?
This is a far cry from home. The glamour. The dishonesty. The falseness of it all. She loves it.
She knows she shouldn’t. She wasn’t raised into this kind of world. She was taught modesty, living off and with the land, compassion for one’s fellow man. This is the complete opposite of that. Perhaps that’s what draws her to it. The alienness of it all. The spectacle. Because if there’s one thing it is, it is a spectacle. A charade. One big show of wealth and overcompensation for any lack of real character or worth.
Reif wonders what that says about her being here. Is she now at their level, so high and yet so so low? She sets down her champagne glass and goes in search of a real drink.
“How is it we always seem to meet at bars?”
She instantly recognises the owner of the voice and smiles. “Lyra. It’s been too long.” She turns to greet her old friend, arms open. She kisses the air beside her as they hug, one cheek then the other. “How have you been? You look well, as always.”
“And you flatter me my dear, as always.” She nods towards the bar. “What’s your poison tonight?”
Reif chuckles. “Anything other than whatever it is they’re serving over there. I’d rather pay their exorbitant prices than stomach another sip of that shite. Seriously, have you tried it?”
“You could not pay me to.”
“Perhaps,” says Reif, “but I can return an old favour and pay for your drink.” Lyra doesn’t protest much, just the usual feigned resistance one puts up before oh go on then if you insist. Reif orders an elven vintage, supposedly from some vineyard almost near home. She eyes the bottle suspiciously before tasting it. “Nope, definitely not Skiplands wine. Too tart.”
Lyra raises an eyebrow. “But better than that swill they’re calling champagne?”
Reif takes another sip to test. “Much.”
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