Lotta chuckles, though more of an exhalation through her nose than a proper laugh. “I appreciate it.” With a small smile, she takes a long drink of the plain old juice, and is surprised to find it absolutely delicious. She nods once. “Good- very good. Actually- bloody brilliant.” One more sip; she hums for a second. “Maybe not enough mango in it for it to be called that, though.” Something she can depend on with her nights at On The Rocks, is that her tab will at least be cheap, and so she tentatively asks, “How much are these?”
At his next words, she laughs, a real one this time, and raises her chin slightly in question. “Are you claiming not to be a saint, Tommy? After you introduced me to these?” Her tone is ironic. There is no way she can claim to know everything the bartender gets up; but she has an idea. Enough nights of he and Del in the doorway of the apartment, tones not quite hushed - they both know that Cora and Lotta aren’t judging - but she tries not to eavesdrop out of politeness. Still, she does have an idea.
There is something odd about the man. It’s not a bad thing, nor a good. But she trusts him, despite their conversations being limited to a bartender-patron stereotype, and the odd two-sentence greeting in her hallway. “I’m not, particularly, unfortunately. I’m still not entirely sure if I’ll be going home for the festivities at all. I have the excuse of it being a long trip.” She pauses for a moment, wanting to leave it, but unable to, “Poirot was Belgian, by the way. And a detective. I work in PR.”
He leans inwards as if spilling a secret. “On the house,” he murmurs, tone barely audible above the acoustic strums of the band nearby. He presumes his boss would greatly disapprove, thus he treats the scenario with a delicacy - as if they’re peering over his shoulder. When he pulls backwards, retreating to the space that was once between them, he’s uncertain whether it’s the sweetness of the mango or perfume that he catches. “You’re keeping me employed.”
Her questions prompt something mischievous within him, the corner of his lips curling into a comfortable smirk. “Hell, as far as we’re concerned, I’m just a guy in a bar,” he raises both palms in response, speaking in the first vein of thought that his mind could find - whether or not it made any discernable sense. Tommy’s closet was bursting at the hinges with all the bones he had hoarded over the years - yet, between them, he was nothing more than what she witnessed. Insignificant in most ways.
“Another Crescent Harbour resident desperate to avoid family? I’m starting to think there’s something in these waters.” There’s an ebb and flow of silence as he observes her, attempts to scavenge a hint of something more - as if the more he looked, the more he would learn of her. How bittersweet it was to be snapped back to the reality he existed within, sobered up by the cooing of two women at the opposing end of the bar.
“Hold that thought,” he raises a finger upwards with urgency, deflecting the surging annoyance in his tone as he slinks backwards towards the cry of customers. They plead for cocktails that don’t exist on the menu and, much to their relief, he obliges. Espresso martinis were simple concoctions - but the offered tip was what lured such foreign kindness from him. When he offers both liquor and a smile most beguiling, they exchange a piece of paper and creased dollar bills. He counts them in his grasp, stuffing them into the depths of his back pocket, before returning to what had just so recently held his gaze. “Where were we?” He reminds himself, tumbler in hand. “Oh, wait- who said I gave you that nickname because of either of those things? I just thought you’d look real good with that moustache.”
romaincrisis
2087
amandla
turnnoffyourmind
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