Post by anya fowl on Oct 19, 2019 20:04:41 GMT
|[attr="class","anyapost"]she leans back, thumbs the rocks glass in front of her. it's a wednesday. the speak-easy is fairly empty, save for the few regulars who come to enjoy the jazz and craft cocktails more than the thrill of a weekend night's buzz. |
slow and sultry, soft and muted. the jazz players are either feeling as melancholy as the weather or they're trying to put what little bar patrons l. stelle as has to offer to sleep.
it's a hole in the wall place, requires a few knocks to get in. she wears a velveteen dress, feathered earrings that rest against her shoulders, just shy of her curled hair. she sits openly, at a table for two with only the single drink before her, half empty.
the whiskey falls thick to her tongue, honey warming her teeth. she bats her eyes and watches the band with almost-interest.
[newclass=.anyapost b]color:#861a1e;font:bold 11px calibri;line-height:12px;text-transform:lowercase;[/newclass]