≈ o’shea’s. with @momentspassd ( samuel )
It had been relatively quiet when Phoebe entered the pub, promising Leon she wasn’t here to work (even if she had been sneakily gathering up discarded glasses like a shepherd dog herding sheep every other time she had stepped foot in the bar), even showing off her beat-up laptop bag as proof she was just here to finish typing up the contents of the journals from the retreat. Some people worked in coffee shops — which probably was a more fitting environment — but Phoebe appreciated that the regulars knew better than to bother her when she was in the zone, and that she could stay in the bar for longer hours than most of the café’s around town stayed open.
She had been completely lost in the little world she was typing up, the only thing breaking her concentration was the pointed throat-clearing of the O’Shea’s owner, handing her an off-menu dish with a steely glare that translated into one thing: break time, now. Phoebe willingly complied, closing the lid of her laptop, pushing the device aside to make room for the plate, taking stock of the pub and the extra bodies that had filtered in since she had arrived as she ate. Her eyes met one specific man — his face vaguely familiar — and she dipped her head in embarrassment when he caught her staring at him. “Sorry.” She mumbled, clearing her own throat, daring to meet his gaze again. “It’s just uh, you look familiar.” A sudden thought dawned on her then, thinking of the list of names and corresponding photographs lined on the walls of the O’Shea’s office. “You’re not like…barred from here are you? I know a few people who took advantage when the owner was on vacation but he’s back now and I’d rather eat in peace and not watch someone be like, physically thrown out.”
