cherryon-top:
The pub had quickly become one of her favorite spots in town. It reminded her of places she would frequent as a teenager in Chicago, memorizing the address on her fake ID in case they carded her. She stirred her drink – ruby sour, extra cherry – absentmindedly, waiting for nothing in particular. Most nights she just came here to kill time, although she figured she would have to start working soon. Maraschino. Carmen had learned to all but completely tune out her last name, especially in bars. Usually, it was only someone ordering double cherries in their drink. She didn’t bat an eye when she heard it, anymore.
A heavy hand on her shoulder causes her to stir. She spins around and looks him up and down, confusion written all over her face. Her eyes shift from the hand on her shoulder up to his face. “Sorry, sir,” she begins, wide eyed, “do I know you?” For a moment she tries to keep her composure before erupting into uproarious laughter and bringing her hands up to his cheeks.
“You look just the same, kid,” she smiles and pinches one of his cheeks, “what are you doing here?”
He can’t help but grin from ear to ear when he sees her. Talk about a blast from the past. “More like what are you doing here, cherry baby? You on the lam or something?” He’s joking, of course. Little Carmen Maraschino was the bad girl of Melrose Park (if rumors were anything to go on), but she was never a bad gal. Valentine, simple as he was, couldn’t imagine someone so pretty doing anything awful to anybody. “What are the chances!” Ever the sentimental one, Valentine wanted to lift her right off of that chair and give her a bear hug.
“Just when I’ve been missing the old neighborhood, you show up out of the blue.” Perhaps it was fate, or perhaps the few drinks he’d had were messing with his tendency to overthink.
