β giada moreno the jagged yard, downtown
It all felt like it happened in slow motion. One moment she'd turned around to discard of a few dirty glasses from the patron that just left the bar and in the next, she was turning back to the now not-so-vacant bar stool, starting to question the newcomer with a "What are you interested in tonight?", before her gaze fell on the one person that, even in a dim bar lit only with the neon lights surrounding them, she'd recognize no matter what. Giada. Her ex-wife. The same ex-wife that had shown up to her house, the house they used to share not too long ago (or so it felt when those memories resurfaced and came rushing to the forefront of her mind), and then left without saying more than two words (and none of them pertaining to why she was there in the first place). First her house. Then her bar. A coincidence, maybe? The maybe not consideration is what left her brow furrowing, pulling the bar towel from her shoulder to wipe what little liquid lingered on her hands, though the motion was more so meant to give her something to do with her hands as she tried to work out whether she should say anything more to the other than the question she'd asked earlier, the same one she asked every patron. Not once, though, did she consider what would have been the smartest thing to do in that moment β to walk away from the bar and let someone else take over her section for her. She could've done it, because who argues with the boss, but instead Sage stayed and chose to open her big, dumb mouth and the can of worms that came with it. "Why are you here? Can't be because you missed my face after seven years."
@giadamoreno
