#bashlandry001

Cora’s perusing the liquor shelf behind the bar, guiding the eyes of the bartender with a single finger towards a bottle on the highest perch. It’s pink in colour, the thickness of milkshake and only when it hits the back of her throat does the bitter taste of tequila rear its head. Her features scrunch instinctively before she steps away, gaze flitting across the gangly features of her cousin’s boyfriend. Though her last interaction with Lily had expressed concern, Cora didn’t possess any harsh feelings towards the man in question. He was complicated in all the knotted threads that she could discern, yet did not possess the cruel traits wreathed between the men in their family. Thus, she moves to perch atop a nearby barstool, heels clacking against the polished floorboards.           “Smells like cheap whiskey over here,” she sniffs the air as she speaks, her forehead creasing between furrowed brows. The sentiment was expelled in jest - no more serious than a playful nudge of an elbow. “I hope you intend on keeping your hands and feet inside the ride at all times tonight, Balboa.”

“Man, you look like shit.”             Though face-value would depict it as an insult, Joel spoke with little intention - it was a greeting, an ebb of concern flowing freely throughout his declaration. He’d suppose leaving it as just that would be suffice. There were no requirements to pry further; he’d suppose the man was a mirror image of sorts. Where he too looked particularly dishevelled - rough around the edges - they knew it evolved from a similar space. Their lives cast out to sea, heads barely above the current.               A single hand raises upwards, gesturing towards the bartender who mopped at spilled liquor with a damp cloth. Their attention lifting upwards in response. Joel spoke to most as if he had known them for seasons - yet it was often unclear whether his relationship with bartenders stemmed from one evening or ample. His liver would be the only one to know such a truth.             “Ey, barkeep, we’ll take two whiskeys. If he doesn’t feel more human after that, at least I’ll think he’s prettier.” He’s hunched over on a barstool as he speaks, elbows resting comfortably atop the wooden table. It’s aged with the hint of a well-loved bar. Blue eyes survey the liquor bottles before him, his fingers twitching, before retreating to his friend. A quick glance over before he continues. “How many hours a night d’you sleep?”