Post by Dr. Heydari on Jan 20, 2021 4:12:16 GMT
Red Velvet was one of Amala's favorite places in the city. She'd never admit it, of course...or at least not to any of her coworkers. She'd never hear the end of it if her 'super secret agent' colleagues found out that her favorite bar was a speakeasy that served alcoholic cakes and encouraged costume dress. The workers were all dressed in period-appropriate clothing, right down to the beaded fringe, and music somewhere between lo-fi and jazz played over the speakers.
It wasn't too busy during the week, but on weekends it attracted a hipster crowd that knew how to party and didn't ask for too much information. Just right for a woman trying to disappear.
Tonight, a Friday when the night was young, the bar was full of music and the low chatter and laughter of dinner dates. Ah the smell of love in the air...if you counted badly hidden lust, fake laughter, and less than discrete groping as love. Amala wasn't a huge fan. She was, however, a fan of interrupting those dates when she could tell the woman was uncomfortable. The bartenders had learned to humor her when she sent them over with the wrong drink to pour on a guy, or sent a girl a drink to cheer her up, because in the last 3 years, not once had she gotten it wrong.
She preferred the later scene, after ten, when the music turned a little frantic, and the dancefloor flooded with flying limbs and swinging hips. With a little alcoholic assistance, you could lose yourself in something like that. Those were good weekends.
Tonight was no time for dancing. Amala, dressed for the occasion in a little black dress that would have made the active agents proud, sat at the bar instead. She may have had her back to the entrance, but she could see every patron that entered in the mirror behind the lines of bottles. She swirled her chocolate martini in one hand and toyed with the end of the blue chiffon scarf she'd worn around her shoulders with the other. It was nearly 8:10 now. Crane was late. She wondered if the agent had a strategy, trying to wait her out so she'd leave.
Old habits died hard, didn't they? The agent would want an exit strategy, probably bring a weapon, try to be in and out unnoticed, off cameras. Being let go from one of the world's most dangerous professions couldn't have been easy. Living a normal life must be nearly impossible after you'd been trained to jump at every shadow.
She wouldn't blame him for being paranoid, either. Being paranoid doesn't mean someone isn't actually out to get you, after all. But she'd chosen a public place for both of their sakes--somewhere where it would be difficult to kill without being seen. They'd both feel safer, that way. And, of course, some boozy red velvet cake never hurt a girl either. How funny that the first person she'd share this place with was a stranger.
She smiled softly and was just popping a bite of cake into her mouth as the door to the speakeasy opened again. Her dark eyes never left the reflection, even as she drew the fork slowly from between her lips.
It wasn't too busy during the week, but on weekends it attracted a hipster crowd that knew how to party and didn't ask for too much information. Just right for a woman trying to disappear.
Tonight, a Friday when the night was young, the bar was full of music and the low chatter and laughter of dinner dates. Ah the smell of love in the air...if you counted badly hidden lust, fake laughter, and less than discrete groping as love. Amala wasn't a huge fan. She was, however, a fan of interrupting those dates when she could tell the woman was uncomfortable. The bartenders had learned to humor her when she sent them over with the wrong drink to pour on a guy, or sent a girl a drink to cheer her up, because in the last 3 years, not once had she gotten it wrong.
She preferred the later scene, after ten, when the music turned a little frantic, and the dancefloor flooded with flying limbs and swinging hips. With a little alcoholic assistance, you could lose yourself in something like that. Those were good weekends.
Tonight was no time for dancing. Amala, dressed for the occasion in a little black dress that would have made the active agents proud, sat at the bar instead. She may have had her back to the entrance, but she could see every patron that entered in the mirror behind the lines of bottles. She swirled her chocolate martini in one hand and toyed with the end of the blue chiffon scarf she'd worn around her shoulders with the other. It was nearly 8:10 now. Crane was late. She wondered if the agent had a strategy, trying to wait her out so she'd leave.
Old habits died hard, didn't they? The agent would want an exit strategy, probably bring a weapon, try to be in and out unnoticed, off cameras. Being let go from one of the world's most dangerous professions couldn't have been easy. Living a normal life must be nearly impossible after you'd been trained to jump at every shadow.
She wouldn't blame him for being paranoid, either. Being paranoid doesn't mean someone isn't actually out to get you, after all. But she'd chosen a public place for both of their sakes--somewhere where it would be difficult to kill without being seen. They'd both feel safer, that way. And, of course, some boozy red velvet cake never hurt a girl either. How funny that the first person she'd share this place with was a stranger.
She smiled softly and was just popping a bite of cake into her mouth as the door to the speakeasy opened again. Her dark eyes never left the reflection, even as she drew the fork slowly from between her lips.
