flightless.

He had guessed she wasn’t about to have a complete change of personality and gush about his drink, despite him knowing that he made it damn well, so he took her neutral response as a compliment.  “Well, it depends, do you only want to know so you can get me fired?” His words came out as a jest, but he was slightly serious.—He really had to work on keeping his mouth shut.

Raising a brow at the lodger, he silently accepted the challenge.  Grabbing a highball glass, he quickly got to work. After filling the glass with ice, he nearly filled it with the bar’s preferred vodka before topping it off with tonic water.  He was tempted to give the order some showmanship; a flip of the bottle or something of the like, but resisted. Grabbing one of the lime garnishes from the bin that he’d have to refill very soon, he squeezed some into the drink before setting it on the rim of the glass.  “——Well, let’s see how I did, shall we?” He said, pushing the drink towards the patron.

“You’ll think differently once you taste the drink.”

“Oh, so are you not aloud to talk unless spoken too?—That would’ve been handy to know earlier.”

“See, to get a drink, you actually have to tell the bartender what sort of drink you’d like.”

“And what reason would I have to do that?”

“Well, if that isn’t vague than I don’t know what is.”

“Is that a promise?”

“Not socially acceptable?” he couldn’t help but laugh.  “Well neither is saying that, but I appreciate your honesty.”  It didn’t bother him, he knew a lot of people that ended up in worse places by the age of 29.  Like in the ground.

“Do I seriously look like I’m forty to you?” he questioned, mostly incredulously, but with a bit of curiosity as well.

“Not sure if you’re actually curious or you’re trying to deflect from the fact that your ID may not say that you were born before this day in 1994 or earlier.–” he replied with a raised brow, hoping that wasn’t the case.  The paperwork of spotting a fake was too much work.  “–Either way, a lot older than you, love.”  And sometimes he felt even older than that.

He could be an ass and tell her he wasn’t clocked in yet, thus making it against the rules for him to even step behind the bar. He could, and he wouldn’t even get in trouble for it, because it was true.  And the thought was tempting.  But instead with one more grunt and repositioning of the box, he nodded.  “Yeah, gimme a minute.—Get your ID out though, ‘cause you definitely don’t look over 30.” he replied, referring to the ‘card under 30′ rule that most places pressed upon their bartenders.