. crosshairs

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It was hardly surprising that this bar was his bar of choice. Hidden behind what looked like a particularly ratty apartment door, the little treasure trove of a drinking den was so inconspicuous it invited only those in the know inside, offering the utmost privacy in a city so bereft of personal space. It was so inconspicuous, in fact, that he had no worries whatsoever about bringing a string of women here on his first dates - even if you were to corner his ex wife at gunpoint, she wouldn't be able to recall the directions. It had a good selection of craft beers for him, heady cocktails for her, and therefore everything you could ever wish for when it came to a first date.  Pushing the door open for a bemused blonde, she edged her lithe little frame into the initially intimidating space. It was painfully obvious how overdressed she was for the place, diamond earrings glinting in the low lighting of the bar. As was usually the case, she seemed impressed with his choice of venue. With a playful slap on the arm, she slipped dainty fingers around his arm, tightening around his bicep appreciatively and causing her glittery nail polish to sparkle garishly. She leaned into him, glossy lips close to his ear as she whispered her kudos, her body leaning so close they were in danger of merging.   Admittedly, this wasn't a first date, but rather a third. Having already done the dirty, Noah hadn't been planning on calling this particular lady back, but knowing her excessively sensual body language... He'd wanted to come to the bar tonight, and he'd wanted to bring someone along... and maybe he'd chosen someone that he'd hoped would stir things up. Ignoring whatever it was she was purring away to him, Noah pulled his arm free to lean against the counter, a slow smirk pulling across his face as he laid eyes on the girl he really wanted to see.   "Hi. I'll go with my usual - Brooklyn lager, in case you can't quite place my face - and my girlfriend here..." he slipped an arm around the blonde's waist, pulling her in tight against him. "Well. What would you recommend for the prettiest girl in the room?" Tagged: @frida Notes:  UNFORGIVABLY BAD. and too long. it was just so bad. Listening:  assassination of jesse james soundtrack.

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The quiet of the bar was met with a certain eeriness, the coating of silence on hardwood furnishings felt like that of a haunted mansion. While Smokey Robinson and The Miracle's 'Really Got a Hold on Me' played in the background, the young brunette legs swung slowly in the rhythm of Claudette Robinson's smooth vocals. Earlier in the evening, in fact it was only a mere twenty minutes ago, a young regular sat across her at the bar. At first he annoyed her, with his ridiculous bow-tie and backwards baseball cap, even more annoying was the fact that his eyes were affixed on his phone, fingers scrolling mindlessly down his instagram feed. But now that he was gone, she yearned for the stench of his musk, and the glow of his smartphone. She swung her legs anxiously while sitting high up on the barstool. Her fingers boredly folding the ends of her hair into a neat plait, and then combed the brown strands loose. As the song sailed smoothly, her head rested against the back of the bar, her big expressive eyes drifting closed as tight lips fell into a yawn. It was mid-week, and already the bar was failing her, she wasn't exactly accustomed to large crowds, but she was certainly wasn't for mending her own thoughts at this stage. She was drowning in the staleness of the evening, so much that she couldn't drift off into a sleep, the clicking of silence keeping her mind more awake than ever. Smokey Robinson withdrew his hold on her, and was met by a quicker track. At that her tidy black pumps hit the floor, her sleepiness was shocked away by the next song on her own playlist, gold heels clicking toward the stereo to turn the volume up. As she did so, she heard the squeak of the door and was suddenly aware of company. Her teeth bit her lower lip, eyes widening as if to communicate her gratefulness - thank God, really. Frida's fingers were already tight around a pint glass as he murmured his order, her eyes meeting his in consideration. Well, I love Barrier Brews, she raises the pint glass to the tap, pressing it with the opposite hand and settling it underneath a wooden coaster, pushing it towards him. But you look a fair bit simpler, disdain filled the blonde's features and the barwaitress caught herself quickly, eyes rolling in faux horror, God, no, not like that. Cosmo? Not waiting for a reply, she spins the opposite way and reaches for a tall martini glass. " Notes: THAT WAS NOT BAD Listening: Black Pistol Fire

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Confronted by his own observation that Frida was much more interesting to look at than most beautiful women, as soon as he'd arrived his eyes had locked on her, and if asked, he wouldn't have been able to tell you what colour his date's eyes were. In fact, he wouldn't be able to tell you what colour her dress was, and he'd be too distracted to check. His eyes following her as she moved towards the tap, he smiled inwardly at her inability to keep her disdainful sentiment guarded, so expressive was her face. But then she probably wasn't trying too hard to protect the girl's feelings.  Taking a sip of the coppery liquid at that moment transpired to be a mistake, as stifled laughter made him choke - the blonde's face as she was insulted but didn't know it was a masterpiece in itself, a picture of confusion and uncertainty as she tried to work out of that was a jibe or not. In any case, she seemed happy with the flourescent liquid. Sipping it, she looks up at him through thick lashes, catching her bottom lip between her teeth in a way that'd be uncomfortably sexy if it weren't for the fact that everything about her filled him with a deep sense of contempt. Pulling away, he sits on the barstool next to her, eyes slowly drawn back to Frida. After an awkward pause, the girl sets down her drink. "Do you two know each other or something? Noah I swear on my daddy's grave, if you're seeing other girls from that stupid app of yours..." It's enough to stir him from his musings. Tilting his head and finally giving her the privilege of eye contact, he takes her hand and lowers his voice to a whisper. "Laura. Are you serious right now? You really think..." he pulls her to her feet, pulling her close and threading a stray hair behind her ear, "Come on. Look at you. What possible reason could I have to look elsewhere?" Assuaged, she leans in for a kiss that his stomach can't yet face. "But yes, Frida and I know each other. She's actually my ex. We're on good terms. Frida, can you tell Laura here how bored you are of hearing me talk about her?" Notes:  k this was also bad but it's 7am. Listening:  silenceeeee.

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As she turned away from the blonde she couldn't save a grin from creeping onto her face. The girl was prone to sticking her foot in her mouth, unintentionally letting words fall from the tip of her tongue without thinking them through. As in previous cases - which included outing Noah as a cheater in front of his wife, and accidentally telling a friend that she was going to get proposed to. These she felt some what bad about, even slightly embarrassed. But this harmless slip wasn't bad. Now that it was out, she didn't find too much flaw with it. In fact the narrow cut of the girls eyes brought thrills to Frida, a sting of adrenaline from saying the wrong thing. She was egged on by a cough in the background, looking over her shoulder to raise an amused eyebrow at her company and shaking her head disagreeably. Frida sloshes together liquids, adding a slight bit more vodka than she usually would have, and pours the concoction into the glass, adding a shaven string of orange as a final touch. The brunette sets the pinky cocktail in front of the woman, and her feet step backward. Her big glassy eyes catch her as she sips at her cocktail, bites her overly plump lips in show, and immediately she has to busy herself, to keep from laughing. Though as she grabs a cloth and begins wiping at an already immaculate square of the counter, she's suddenly laughing through what little of a filter she had. Frida is mid giggle fit as she turns her head, her head shaking 'no' but her quiet but obvious laughter meaning yes. It dies off as she cocks her head gently like a dog, watching the act before her. She watches as the blonde's eyes soften, her body melt at his touch, and then it's stiff once more as Frida is addressed. Frida's caught off-guard as she's suddenly asked to improv, her hand brushes thoughtfully against her forehead. The truth is, sweet Laura, her eyes lift from the floor to the blonde, that our love was far too passionate for most to comprehend.. too complex, too completing. That for the sake of mankind we had to end things. Her face is solemn, doe eyes somewhat begging, lips drawn into the most subtle pout. And yes, I'm bored, but more than that.. I'm excruciatingly jealous. Of not only you, or darling Noah's flawless tindering - how many is that this week? Four? - but mainly of what obvious chemistry you have. God, it makes me want to garnish your drink with rat poison. Notes: this is gross Listening: nada

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He wasn't sure why he did this to himself. Shoulders subconsciously hunching over the bar, everything about Lauren's behaviour got under his skin, and not in the way she intended. Her overly white teeth, her glossy pout, those bedroom eyes... it never ceased to feel like a taunt, reminding him of Victoria Secret models and how their entire existence was intended to make anyone falling short of their impossible standards feel like nothing. A pretty girl's smirk never stopped reminding him of smug cheerleaders from high school, and rampant displays of sexuality in the face of nothing more than alcoholic lust and materialism made him feel ill. She was so blatant that his facade was starting to slip, his previously warm body language turning frosty... until Frida laughed. Hearing her barely stifled amusement put him back at ease, easily pulling his attention away from the contemptible woman beside him and allowing him to seamlessly slip back into character.  His hand tightens on the curve of her hip, fingers spreading to really take in the curve of her body. The drinks they had at a hotel bar just before are starting to get to him, and for a moment he divorces Laura's personality from her physical form, breathing in her heady perfume and pretending not to notice the fact her roots were growing in. She's not so bad when she's not presenting herself to him, and in those few seconds, he almost regretted bringing her here and not just skipping the formalities. It was oddly reassuring - at least feeling vaguely attracted to her physically meant that he couldn't be a total psychopath, right? But Frida's on form, and as soon as she starts to talk Laura dies to him as quickly as she had come alive. It's a good thing too, as she's being pushed to her limits. Letting her go, he puts a hand on his heart, tilting his head as though touched. He's about to speak when she mentions his other Tinder dates - a number she accurately remembers, he notes, hoping it's intentional - and instead only inwardly winces, knowing it's the final nail in a coffin long since sealed. "Laura, baby, you're not gonna believe this foreigner, are you? Come on, it's not my fault! Once you go Swedish you--" And then it happens, the inevitable: sticky sweet liquid is being poured over his head, turning his previously white shirt pink. "Burn in hell, asshole. And you too. Have fun with your barmiad-- you two deserve each other," and with that she turns on her heels, storming out of the bar. Slowly Noah turns to face her, cosmopolitan still dripping from his eyelashes. "...This is one hundred percent your fault." Notes:  i cn't rite Listening:  enrique iglesias and flo rida. ):

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Her evening had indeed taken a turn, and it was an exciting one at that. Less than ten minutes ago she had been snoozing on a bar stool, her thumbs winding in circles, and consiously wishing for a meteorite to fly into the bar. Frida was granted something much more entertaining, as this regular floated into the bar, holding this golden trophy of a woman. It felt like a Paramount Production, a movie she had quite unexpectedly been cast in. The climax hit, and her big eyes watch as the blonde turns less passive, unraveling her suffocating grip from the man to place her hands on her hips and look at him sternly. From there it's a downward spiral, Noah's words only placing more weight on it, and Frida's eyes drop from his awestruck face to Lauren's dominant hand. She's hooked, suddenly craving popcorn, and if she were sitting, she'd be on the edge watching as pink oozed from her too-strong cocktail onto the man's mat of brown hair. It's something Frida can't handle, laughing before the girl even slams the door shut. Her hand is clutching her stomach, her abdominal muscles are aching from honest laughter. I'm sorry, she stiffles through notes of laughter, shaking her head furiously toward the floor before looking back to him, I'm not even sorry. Frida says admittedly, teeth catching the corner of her lip, and extinguishing her laughter to a bare minimum. She grabs the now empty martini glass, and gives him a look, you were asking for it.. you asked me to take the bait, you asked if I was bored! The brunette excuses herself from the situation at that, in her mind finding logic and reason in her words, but as her eyes look at him, his face sticky with cranberry juice, she finds herself unable to contain her laughter once more. She sets the glass in the sink, and grabs a white towel, soaking it under the tap. After squeezing the water from it, she tosses the damp cloth his way. Or, I could hose you off out back? she jokes, running a soapy sponge around the glass, and rinsing it. Once leaving it to dry next to the sink, Frida slips back onto the comfort of her bar stool. She grins quite widely, a set of perfectly straight teeth between rosebud lips. One hundred percent your fault. Notes: this is actually TERRIBLE Listening: union duke

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Furrowing his eyebrows, Noah realised they'd sort of stuck together by the sugary concoction that had been poured over his head. He'd endured the pleasure of having a variety of drinks poured over his head over the last four years; everything from champagne (celebration) to juice (unruly daughter) to water (cringe inducing photoshoot). Whilst it was seldom fun, it was also seldom as uncomfortable as now, since it was not only a sticky mess, but made him smell like a boozy girls' night out. He could practically hear the Sex and the City girls' cackling ringing through his ears. Still, Frida's rampant laughter brought a grin to his face, almost making his discomfort worthwhile. He drains his glass of beer as she continues to laugh, nodding along. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, laugh it up. I hope you don't expect me to pay for that." He raises an eyebrow at her in disagreement. "I can't believe this is the thanks I get. Not only did I continue to be your bar's most loyal patron, but I even deigned to offer you entertainment for the evening. Is this how you show gratitude in Europe?" He takes the cloth gratefully, fanning it out to rub it all over his face in one swooping motion - the trademark clean up method of a parent. Still rubbing at his jawline where stubble provided shelter for rogue remnants of cocktail, he rolled his eyes. "Laugh it up, homewrecker." It's not until he's settled the cloth back onto the bar that he takes stock of the situation, suddenly very glad to be rid of Lauren. It felt almost like going into work and being told you had a surprise half day, and he was a little stuck on what to do with his newfound freedom.  Leaning against the bar, he flicks his glass to signify that he wanted it refilled. "You better start drinking with me before I feel like one of those lonely old men, boring pretty young barmaids with tedious stories about his youth." He glances at his watch. "Based on my basic knowledge of New York licensing laws, my familiarity with this bar and my creepy knowledge of your rota, I make it that you've got forty minutes before you get to clock off. Are you just bursting with excitement? Or do you wish I'd came in sooner? I'm working on getting my own bat symbol, but getting planning permission is so fucking tough in this city." Notes:  imagine us writing something and being like 'hey this didn't totally suck'. just imagine. also s h o r t i'm sorry! Listening:  no doubt.

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Frida is habitually pressing her lips together, battling a grin. Her long fingers clasp either side of the oak bar stool, and she dwindles her bare nails on the base, lightly and quietly. She's more earthy than the woman who just left, her choice of attire one thing, and her general appearance another. Her black skinny jeans and black blouse, though the lace of her bra visable through it, was matronly in comparison to the red dress which was practically second skin to Lauren. Frida's brunette head, softly striped with natural blonde highlights, lacked glamour in retrospect. Her own features more a classic beauty, like what you'd see in a commercial spread, rather than Sports Illustrated. She wore only a whisper of eye shadow, a layer of mascara, and a dab of rosey lipstick, as she lacked an artist's hand and usually when she attempted more she found she looked almost masculine. Her appearance was without complexity. She frowns at him sarcastically, and her hands drift back up from the stool, shrugging melodramatically. I'm complimenting you with my laughter, ha-ha-ha.. you should really be flattered, I'm a bit insulted that you're not, this can't have been the first time you've been slimmed with a girly drink, her voice doesn't question, it's as if she's telling the weather, it's factual. Leaning forward in her chair, her lips pucker slightly, and her eyes squint, you have a little orange peel in your hair. Catching the glint of an empty glass, she's grabbing for it before he gestures. Slipping from the height of the stool, onto the ground, and clicking forward. Her feet are becoming sore, her shift must be coming to a close. She holds the glass to the tap, filling it with amber liquid, an inch of foam forming at the top as she sets it back on the coaster. On the house - pity-beer, she flicks a damp hand at him, wet with beer. She scoops a second glass from below the bar, filling it with a dark liquid, and taking a long sip, her tongue lapping the foam from her upper lip. Do you have a career in peer pressure? Actually.... she grabs his wrist, green eyes reading the silver arm which moves slowly. Thirty-eight minutes, minus eight since I plan on leaving early, she smirks, letting his wrist free to fist pump. You can't tell, but I'm actually wetting myself with excitement... it's been such a long night, I've almost had to resort to cutting limes. Notes: "hey this didn't totally suck" Listening: black pistol fire

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Running a hand through bristly hair, he took a moment to mourn the loss of his mop of curls. You could probably have permanently lost orange peel in there. As it stood it took only a brief finger combing to remove, and he offered a smile tinged with sarcasm in her direction. "Thanks for that, you're an angel." She's right though, and he was thoroughly deserving of every drink that got thrown his way. Having had Anya in his life for the past year had radically changed things, shifting his primary focus from revenge of the high school dork to fatherhood. He'd managed to keep up his hobby of leading beautiful women on despite this new and extreme demand on his time, but if he was honest with himself, the amount of pleasure he derived from it had seriously diminished. It was getting old, he was getting lazy, it was becoming a chore. Having a daughter specifically made him feel guilty about the fact his main hobby was damaging women's self worth. So he really was glad to be shot of Laura, and was even relieved she might get the hint and get out before he really did some damage. "Mmm," he said, taking a sip of the fresh pity-beer, "you can really taste those condescending undertones." He half-shrugs at her rhetorical question, given that they both know the answer is a half maybe. Another grin crawls across his face. "You rebel you. Seeing as you're a slacker, I should probably drink up, make sure we both get another few in before shutters. Can you lock up now? I don't think I could stand the thought of sharing you with anyone else, I like having a drinks slave." He glances at her drink, narrowing his eyes. Immediately he knows it'll be a better choice than his own, so he leans across and swipes it, holding his arm out to keep her at bay while he takes a sip. Sure enough, it's rich with nutty caramel tones, with sort of oaky background notes. He instantly regrets his choice, sliding the glass back to her forlornly. He doesn't stay forlorn for long. "Here, help me out." Fishing inside the pocket of his pants, he pulls out an iPhone 5S, quickly tapping in his code and pulling up Tinder. "Pick my next date. Go for anyone you want - more of the same, a fat one with a bikini profile picture, an older one, a younger one, whatever. My only requirements are that they're legal and female, everything else is fair game." He pauses, a thought slowly occuring to him.  "Have you ever had Tinder? Don't lie to me Ikea, I can look it up." Notes:  ihy. Listening:  eerie silence.

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Her eyes narrow and she considers his request. The bar is still empty, a honeycomb glow has overtaken it, filling each ghostly table. Her fingers wrap around the glass, which is now wet with condensation, and she slugs it back, leaving it half empty. CEO of Peer-Pressure Corporations, she mutters, though she's hardly taken any convincing at all. She's closed far earlier before, and she was sure if her boss was here he would have dismissed her an hour before, she wouldn't have even had to ask. Her shoes clap against the hardwood floor, painting it with shadows, her feminine shape cast across the boards. A hand switches the first bolt on the door (mentally noting to lock it on the way out), and she flicks the dim outside light. Her dark ale is at the bane of Noah's lips when she returns, and she looks sternly, her features fitted with a frown and horror. That is NOT proper drinker's etiquette, her voice is drenched in saddness, a pout heavy on her lips when the glass is returned with a significantly lesser amount of alcohol. Only one thing can cure such a loss.... shots of Jameson, with her head bowed, she shakes it disheartened. In a moment, tiny glasses are brought out, a green bottle of Irish whiskey filling them each. Lick the cosmo off your beard as a chaser, she says slyly, knocking back her own in a second. You're not seriously bringing Tinder in this bar? but he is, and he's passing it off to her. You've brought products of tinder in, but now you're bringing physical tinder into this heaven? her fingers take a hold of the phone. Her thumb casually swiping right at every woman that comes across the screen, do they all have these eyes? These crazy, desperate, love-me eyes? she questions, her own eyes mocking that of a puppy-dog's. Frida's on the chat page asking a woman if she's d-t-f when he asks his next question. Two occasions.. while drunk on the toilet, or while at the airport, she smirks, eyes flicking up at him, I love teasing people when I'm a million miles away. Notes: do u love me. r u playing ur love games wit me. Listening: black pistol fire

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Watching as she sidles over to close up, Noah can't help the schoolboy grin on his face that's emerged as a result of getting what he wants. In truth the likelihood of someone else stumbling through that sacred door at this hour, mid-week was unlikely, but all it would take would be a few rowdy patrons and his one-on-one time with Frida would evaporate. Then this evening really would have to be counted as a failure, and that wouldn't be in any way something he could accept. He pulled his suit jacket off and slung it onto the bar, only now noticing a tiny My Little Pony sticker glinting from the sleeve. Sighing, he didn't even bother to take it off. Instead he undid the buttons on the cuffs of his shirt, winding up the sleeves until they were roughly folded at the elbow. Downing his drink in one, he was pleased to follow it up with Frida's. "Don't you pout at me, I know that game," he said, sliding the glass back her way with exaggerated guilt in his expression. Still, nothing could have lightened up those puppy dog eyes more than what she pulled out next, the green bottle glittering like a hidden easter egg in a video game. Giving her a semi-sarcastic smile at her comment, he threw back the strong liquid, cringing as it burned the back of his throat. "God, you know how to earn a living. Here, get me another beer, whatever. Actually," he gets up, coming round to her side of the bar before she can expressly forbid it. "Ooh, so this is your world. Wow, it actually does look different from this side." Picking up his own empty glass, he sticks it under a tap. "Do you have to tilt it or can I just let this bad boy run? Give me a crash course in pouring, it's a basic skill I've never mastered." From one act of sacrilege to another, he's expecting her to do his Tindering for him. He could never quite understand why people assumed that he took the app so seriously... maybe because he was such an avid user of it himself, and more likely because he made it. But if she were to scroll through his messages, she'd see nothing but a mess of abstract philosophical quotations, and 'sun's out, guns out'. For every serious "down for a drink?" there were fifty instances of him very clearly taking the piss. "They do all have those eyes. It's more 'please don't swipe left' than anything else, because by the time it gets to real life they nearly always get all arrogant on you." He stands close behind her, peering over her shoulder to watch what she's doing with amusement. Not before she makes her confession, though. "Frida. I can personally tell you that this app wasn't created for evil, so stop twisting it to your nefarious motivations." Notes:  i'm going to be l8. Listening:  misbehaving mums to be. great show.

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She watches as he tips the golden liquid back into the hollow of his mouth, and his face scrunch up, a pleased smile sitting on her face as the process goes on. At this counter, curiosity was a main feature, and empathy a second. Her eyes kind as she keenly watches, her own throat raw from the whiskey, but she hides her discomfort better than he does. As his shot glass returns to the table, the thought of refilling it occurs to her, but a fuzziness in the back of her head tells her not to. The alcohol entering her bloodstream, her finger tips becoming light and a sudden awareness taking over, she should pace herself. But then, they only have a half hour in the bar left. She tips the flaxen liquid into the shot glasses. Hey hey hey, get out, her hands shove forcefully on his shoulder, a now familiar frown presenting itself. You'll get me fired, she groans, poking at his side as he shimmies his way beside the tap. She's not serious, of course, being a bar favourite her male boss had a rather soft spot for her. Frida huffs gently, giving in, and grabbing control of his hand. The trick is... to tip it, but not too much and not too little, her hands adjust his, grabbing the lever, and to pour, but not too fast.. and not too slow. Face full of thought, she takes her hands away and lets him take control. The brunette grabs the now full glass from his hand, brings it eye level, and examines keenly, not half bad, not pour your own. She grins, tiping the glass against her lips, a sourness lingers on her tongue. With her two beers on either side of her, and a shot waiting, Frida leans with her elbows propped against the counter. Her thumb still flicking right, barely even taking in the woman now that she's half way. Self-absorbed is boring.. fuck, let's delete your account, she pauses, considering her proposal, it'd be much more freeing.. imagine the extra time you'd have for decent people. Bored with it, she drops the phone back into his pocket ungracefully, her hand now free to take the shot. This time her face is more prone, turning sour as the contrast of taste slithers down her throat. Have you ever been in the VIP?.. the bar's a bit busy, but I think we could try squeeze in, she says in a serious tone, flicking a finger toward the red upholstered couch in the corner of the room. Notes:bad post blues. Listening: nothing

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The harsh burn of whiskey dies down to a pleasant warmth at the back of his throat. He's drank a decent amount so far this evening, and found himself easing out of that initial adrenaline, thrill-seeking stage, into a more mellow place, edges slightly blurred and everything cast in an inviting glow. His body felt laxer, those hulking shoulders in a comfortable slump, his posture still holding but just easing ever so slightly. He wasn't about to fall on the floor drunk, but nor would he trust himself behind the wheels of a car for another 10-14 hours. Frida made an excellent choice of barmaid in this stage, expertly teasing the conversation along, her features almost angelically soft in the twilit bar. Except he's finding himself with another full shot glass, and this alone makes him think that she's more likely the devil in disguise. There's no way he's diving into this one without a chaser, meaning he's on his feet and behind the bar in no time. Her chiding is easy to ignore. Suddenly her fingers are around his, the palms of her hands soft and cool, guiding his gently. He nods along but his eyes are fixed determinedly on her face, and in this close proximity he's noticing the little details that add up to make it so memorable - those big eyes in particular, framed by thick lashes, are an indistinct watery green color that he can't quite place. There's concentration etched in her expression, and it widens that ever-present grin of his. "Excuse you, do I look like a bartender?" He gestures to his stained suit with mock offence. As soon as she's taken a sip he's lifted it from her hands, taking a gulp. "Besides, didn't anyone ever tell you it's unseemly for women to drink beer? Maybe you should make yourself a cosmo." Nodding along with her sentiments, he stops dead as she suggests deleting his account. For a split second, it sounds like the best idea in the world. But then it wouldn't be a great marketing strategy. "Better not." Following her lead, he leans with his back against the bar, knocking back the shot. "Oh," he replies, wincing. "I don't know. Do you think we're cool enough? It'd be so embarrassing if they rejected us on the door."  Picking up an unopened bottle of whatever beer was nearest, he nodded at the half full glass to denote that she could have it. Before she could nab a place he made a beeline to the couch, launching himself across it and sprawling. He leans over to the low table in front, lodging the bottle cap against its edge and using his palm to give it a good hit. Thankfully for his ego, the cap slips right off, and he takes a victory sip. "You can sit on the floor. You do clean it, right?" Notes:  poop. Listening:  adverts.

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Frida's well manicured eyebrow arches over the other for what seems like the hundredth time that evening, wide jaden eyes cast with judgement as Noah slips the tall glass from her fingers. You... is all she manages to get out, shaking her head in slow motion. She's not sure how she's been landed with such a night, from the man with the bow-tie to this man before her with his flamingo-stained dress shirt. Each are ridiculous in their own way, but she's beginning to see Noah as more so. She's hardly able to stay cross, a smile managing to spread her lips wide when she forgets to concentrate. But now in full concentration, she appears to be annoyed with him. Lifting her hand to butt his forehead with his palm, I'm un-seem-ing-ly, she draws out the word. In fact, the thought of holding that dainty martini glass, and sipping on that juicy mixture makes her feel not only ill but inferior. It causes her to grab her first pint, her knuckles white as she holds it, and she chugs it back. The shirt though, Frida pinches the fabric and makes a critical face, no, no, you'll be fine, Bruce Wayne. She gives him a firm reassuring nod, eyes watch him as he quickly grabs a beer bottle, and leaps onto the couch. He's a toddler - sit foot tall, with a drunken wobble, and the mindset of a twelve year old. Her lips curve, and she lifts her middle finger up at him, her body turning and opposite hand grabbing the nozzle of the stereo, turning it up. With her middle finger still errect, she points to her ears and shrugs, pretending not to hear him... actually, she doesn't at all, it's like he's on mute, the movement of his lips overshadowed by some jazzy Parov Stellar mix. Her hands grab the used cloth, give the counters a quick wipe. Frida rinses the shot glasses clean, and manages to fill her own pint glass in the process. With dark ale in hand she sweeps the bar area clean, eyes flicking up towards Noah mischeiviously. With the bar clean, she turns the music down, concern lacing her voice, sorry, what was that? Notes:i give you... nothing! Listening: cake

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Somehow the music and the lighting and the distant smell of cosmopolitan are all blurring into one indistinct mass. But there's one thing he can focus on, and that's her. Each smile he manages to wrangle only makes him all the more determined to search out the next, the faux - or was it sincere? - irritation and disapproval that usually followed the smile only egging him on. Ducking away from her hand too late, he holds his hands up in surrender. "You're totally seemingly. The seemingly-iest. You're reinventing the English language, that's how un-unseemly you are." He leans over the bar, sliding the now empty shot glass between his hands like a child afflicted with ADHD. Blind to his own increasing inebriation, he's about to suggest another when he remembers that he's bound to be woken up at 7am the next day and thinks better of it. Not so inebriated, then. The Bruce Wayne comment stretches his grin to record breaking proportions. It's a throwaway comment that triggers his memory, and he's pleased she's said it. "Now that you mention it..." Setting the beer down mere seconds after picking it up, he frees up his hands so as to start unbuttoning his shirt. The undoing of each button slowly reveals a t-shirt that had previously been obscured by the opaque cotton. "Were you mentally undressing me? I think must have been mentally undressing me." Across his chest is a broad bat symbol, emblematic of that iconic superhero. "I promise I'll go for the full costume next time. Might show through the shirt, but for you, Homewrecker, I'll do it."   Glad to be lying down, Noah runs a hand through what's left of his hair. He takes this opportunity to take stock of the situation. He's decided it's probably wise to officially discount Lauren from his list of conquests, and takes a moment to try and separate all the little facts he'd learned about her to earn her trust from all the other little facts he'd learned about other women to earn their trust. Like computer software, he flicked through memories, metaphorically deleting them from his memory. Happily done with this task, he returns to the much more enjoyable one at hand: annoying Frida. Laughing at her display, yet again he holds his palms up in mock surrender before sitting up and sidling to one side. "Here, m'lady. Sit." Notes: i gave you less. Listening:  no doubtttttt.