#starter.bh

Alec didn't love these early evening shifts when the sunlight still filtered in and a tumbleweed was more likely to roll by than a group of people ready to lavish him in tips, but here he was. Alone. He didn't even care so much about the money— he was bored. Alec flourished in social settings and could get downright destructive when left to his own devices. So after the third time he ran the beat up rag over the counter top and still no one came through those doors, his eyes began to rove over the shabby little dive for something to get into.

And then, sweet deliverance. The door swung open on a creaky hinge and Alec spread his arms like a model on The Price is Right. "Ay, welcome. Grab a seat before they're all gone." Every empty stool seemed to wait in anticipation, echoing his desire for company. He leaned against the counter, braced by his elbows, and smiled. "What can I get ya?"

who: open

"You just had to love everything organic..." she mumbled to herself as she continued down each aisle in Earthwave, filling her cart with items her bare home desperately needed. However, seeing the prices on everything had her questioning just how much she needed food in her pantry. To be fair, if she were back in New York, these prices would be much higher and she would be finding herself on the sidewalk begging for change to help her settle the difference. Placing the last item she had on her list in her cart, Scarlett proceeded to check out and make her way to the little smoothie bar off to the side. Brown eyes scanned the menu, the prices causing her to place her thumbnail into the side of her mouth to chew on, a bad habit she picked back up on a few years back. "Do you think these smoothies are really worth almost thirty dollars?" Her question left in the air as she saw someone step into her peripheral vision.

For a Tuesday night, Aurora was jam packed - which was saying something. Leo was used to a crowd at the club, but he felt especially sardined as they made their way to the front of the line, as desperate for a drink as everyone surrounding them. A thin layer of sweat coated their forehead and smudged the coal that’d been smudged under his eyes by a girl in the washrooms an hour ago, the two of them bonding over a mutual hookup and a line of whatever she’d offered to him. Already impatient as they were, Leo just felt himself grow more annoyed - if anything, their next move was meant to be helpful. One less person for the bartenders to worry about as he helped himself, stretching forward and splaying himself across the bartop until he could clutch onto the first bottle in his range. “Oh, word.” Leo nodded appreciatively, Casamigos label flashing at him - bucket of ice water dumped over his head and ruining the moment when he heard one of the bartenders shout; Hey, what the fuck! A beat passed as Leo made eye contact with them before they were darting off, letting out an adrenaline-fueled shriek of delight as they pushed their way through the crowd, only skidding to a pause when they noticed someone they recognised. “Yo!” He hollered, grabbing his new-found companion and, to their detriment, accomplice, Leo huddling in close to them and concealing the tequila bottle between them just as a security guard huffed past. The man looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. “Ha! Asshole! Helen Keller can see better than you!” Pausing so that he could properly celebrate their victory, Leo uncorked the bottle with his teeth, spitting it onto the ground and holding the tequila towards the other, saccharine grin all but taking over his face, cheeks already aching. “You first. I’m feeling generous.”

Theo accepted the steaming cup of coffee from the barista with a murmured thanks, then turned his attention to the person who’d commented on the cold. His grin was immediate, teasing. “Oh, it’s definitely winter’s opening act. You can tell because everyone’s still pretending they don’t need gloves. Including me.” He raised the paper cup like a shield, his fingers already pink from the chill. “But come January, we’ll all be bundled up like mummies, questioning every life choice that brought us to Illinois.” He paused, his grin softening into a curious tilt of his head. “You must be better prepared than me, though. What’s your secret? Layers? Thermal socks? Some ancient ritual you’d be willing to share? I'm not a creature of the cold. I'm meant to migrate South, like birds do.”

where: utp!

Oliver taps his pen against his sketch pad, staring at the blank page... the one that hasn't seemed to draw itself for the last two hours since he plopped down in this very spot. He brushes his tongue along his lower lip, raising his hand up to pull his earbud out, feeling like someone was standing near him. He turns his head to see someone lingering near him. "If you need that seat, it's open. I promise I don't bite... hard."

Jesus, how long has she gone without doing her laundry? She’s staring at the load in front of her — probably a month? She takes one of the shirts from the pile to give it a sniff — and promptly gags. “Oh, god,” she makes a face, opening the washing machine door. “Fucking hell.” She starts shoving clothes in there, not bothering with separating whites from colors because what is she, the fucking queen of England? She’s barely got any white clothes as it is, anyway. They can afford to get a little washed out. As she’s doing this, she feels a presence approach her, only catching a slight silhouette through her peripheral. “The bra’s not coming off, Paul,” she calls out without looking up. “Find something better to do for once in your sorry life, you fuckin’ perv.”

It’s been a busy past couple of days. Moving to a brand new city with a brand new job and a brand new business on one’s shoulders can become a bit taxing for anyone — even Theodora, despite her experience with stressful situations. She’d mentioned needing a drink at a meeting with the new stable manager as they wrapped up in person for the first time, and he’d recommended O’Shea’s, swearing by the whiskey and “everything other than the vodka.” Whether that’s more of a personal preference or an actual warning is not something Theo is eager to find out tonight.

The bar is cute — it’s quaint and lively and certainly on theme. She’s taking in the scenery as she walks up to the bar, phone against her ear as she hums and haws at her mother’s agent, Peter. He only finishes delivering her mother’s message to her when she’s already sliding onto a seat right at the bar. “I already told you, Petey,” Theo uses the nickname his mother’s manager detests, voice dripping artificial sweetness. “If she has something against what I use my own money for, she can call me herself. She’s 62, not dead.”

Peter sounds like he’s about to start protesting again, but Theodora’s tired, annoyed, and disinterested, so she gives Peter a quick ‘ta-ta’ and hangs up before he can start on another spiel about her abrupt decision to leave the family law firm and move to Illinois to ‘make them all look bad,’ according to her parents.

She sets her phone down on the bar and looks up at the bartender, smiling politely. “I’ll have a whiskey sour, please,” she requests, then, as she turns off her phone, she mutters to no one in particular, “There has to be better things to do on a Friday night than harass your only daughter.”