On the Rocks (Open)

Guest

Ambroise enjoyed working nights. There was something so irksome about daydrinkers that one could rarely notice in those who kept their needs for the evening. Lack of control, he'd decided, was too loose a description for the people who drank during the daytime. And he did not wish the confuse social drinking with day-drinking. There was a difference, in his mind at least.

Social drinkers went out to the Leaky Cauldron in the afternoon to chit-chat and catch up with friends. They sipped at one or two drinks, hardly enough to trash them. The entire point of the outing would be the other person, not the alcohol.

Day drinkers went to a bar with one intention. Accomplices or not, the only thing on their mind was what they were going to drink and how much. These people usually passed out by one in the afternoon and the only would Ambroise could use to describe it was "sad."

Tonight, he stood by the booze with a towel and a cup, making sure that he looked busy even though he'd already done all of the busy work that there was to do. He watched as a young girl sat down. She was obviously underage, but it wasn't his problem.

She ordered a vodka. He gave her water that he'd charmed to taste. In all technicality, it was not illegal if it was not alcohol.

He was halfway done with the cup he was cleaning when a thud sounded in front of him. Instantly, the glass went flying out of his hand and onto the floor.

"Shit," he muttered. He then looked up at the culprit. "Wasted or clumsy?" he asked, half joking and half not.

Guest

Violet wasn't one to usually frequent The Leaky Cauldron. No, she wasn't one to go out all that much at all. Though tonight, she was restless. She was bored with her thoughts, with her university readings, with everything. A change was needed. So, she made herself presentable and decided to go for a drink at the pub, resolving that she wouldn't get sloshed. A few drinks wouldn't hurt after all. Pubs, she found, were better than clubs. She wouldn't be caught dead in a club. No, she found those utterly repulsive. So many people crammed into a small, sweaty space... She'd probably end up killing someone.

She walked in, heading straight for the bar, where she saw the bartender stood after just having served a girl who was clearly underage. That, of course, wasn't any of Violet's business. She wouldn't say anything, she wasn't one to interject. People did as they pleased regardless of what she said, so why bother?

The bartender had gone back to polishing the glass, seeming rather preoccupied with it. It was approaching the stool that her leg seemed to have been caught on someone's as they were leaving the bar. She fell forward, hands catching herself on the bar with a thud. There was the sound of shattering glass as the bartender dropped the glass. She regained her footing and found a seat as he addressed her.

"Neither," she answered flatly "You were just too preoccupied with your cup to notice anything around you. Hence the surprise," she added.

Guest

Claybot adjusted his vision as he calculated who had just walked in. It was a girl, younger than he but not underage. She wore an expression on her face that could not have, should not have, belonged to anyone younger than eighteen or nineteen years of age. Her features were seemingly mature, though he knew that everyone had their way about making themselves out to be something they were not. She was pretty, more in a sexy grungey way than a pretty way, but pretty nonetheless.

He laughed halfheartedly, "Smug little bastards, these cups are," he explained. "If you so much as breath whilst polishing the glass, you are bound to miss a spot." He both was and was not exaggerating about this. He remembered a few nights ago, was it singles night or was that the night before? He was talking to a group of young women and their gay friends whilst polishing a shot glass. A tall brunette with a great ass said something funny and Claybot missed a large section in the front of the glass. Much to his surprise when an older customer pointed out the imperfection the next morning.

"Focus, my dear, is the key to perfection." This was true.

"Might I ask what you will be drinking tonight? And for shits and giggles, I suppose I should ask for a form of identification. I'd rather not be arrested tonight."

He poured firewhisky into a glass and slid it to a gentleman at the end of the bar, all the while maintaining eye contact with the clumsy stranger.

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