speakeasy + kinKAYde
Jun 12, 2018 19:58:01 GMT -5
Post by Death on Jun 12, 2018 19:58:01 GMT -5
[presto]
Secret Haven Pub & Lounge, CAPITOL --- Cygnus twirled the baton of green olives between the thumb and index finger of her right hand before parting her lips and allowing a bright flash of pearly whites to sink into the one perched at the end of the toothpick.
The bar was quiet, but that was to be expected for week-time happy hours, especially as the Games, and the resulting kick-off of the social season, loomed ever-nearer.
Secret Haven occupied the spot of hallowed haunt now that the once-favored Old Orleans Lounge had become swallowed by its usual clientele's taste for... 'unethical swinging' one might say in a hushed voice with quick, darting eye glances about the room, but only if one was looking to mask the distasteful truth as though it were a cheap vodka getting dumped into a mixed drink instead of the bright gem of forthrightness it was intended to be.
If there was anything that had been drilled into Cygnus' head over her eighteen-year tenure with The View, it was that nobody likes drinking cheap liquor when the top shelf stuff is only 6 inches and a pitance away.
More simply, that few hungered for the truth anymore.
Hunger, she mused, returning the olive skewer to her martini, biting with that extra gin she'd requested. Does anyone know what that is anymore?
She almost laughed at herself. Of course there were those who hungered. They were made into murderers, thieves, drug-addicts, alcoholics and psychopaths (if they weren't before they were reaped...) once every year at the cry of a name and the sound of a gong in a masterfully-created landscape that was at once art, set and resting place.
Though Games were her life and business-- what else besides sex scandals and fashion frivoloties sold magazines these days?-- they were hardly her passion. Hardly her hunger.
Years of working for The View had nearly pressed that hunger from her breast like olives were pressed for oil or grapes for wine, but it wasn't gone yet. It was as tenuously grasped as her martini glass currently was, but like her passion and her drink, she couldn't allow it to warm just yet. Not for the likes of The View.
The word 'journalist' when applied to herself gave Cygnus the same distaste as 'unethical swinging' applied to the act of men seducing secretaries despite the sweet nothings of "only you, baby" they whispered into silken sheets of their wives' beds.
She smiled as she brought the martini to her lips one last time to sip at its remains, her thoughts moving to her... friend? comrade?... associate, Glamour Kinkade. Young and hungry was an understatement for the successful, salacious and ever-stylish Capitolite.
Immortal and ravenous, Cygnus decided suited her ally.
Now that her position at The View was secure after years of scraping her way to section editor, she enjoyed taking the Mondays of her long weekends to touch base with contacts before heading into the week with her own carefully filtered recipes to make a spread of gossip and articles fit for each full-color, glossy page.
With Glamour, their visits over the years had transitioned from practically pumping each other for information to the close-knit pot-watching committee they were today.
Perhaps this was also why a change in venue seemed appropriate. Secret Haven, despite their pushing of high-caloried craft beers, had an earthy and quiet atmosphere with a beautiful stone, ivy and string light patio that allowed Cygnus her breath of fresh air before diving into the week ahead.
Over her head, a trellis interwoven with flower-bearing vines and small twinkling lights helped keep the glaring sunlight out, shadowing the outdoor bar area with a much-desired coolness, while allowing the city scape and its often barely-there breeze to leak into their otherwise perfectly-curated atmosphere.
"Let's switch to something fruity," she says as she turns to face the young, heavily-tattooed tender at the other side of the bar. "Something strawberry. No beer. Surprise me."
He sets down the glass he was drying and walks over before he gingerly takes the martini glass back from her, dumping the two remaining olives into the scuffed metal waste bin before setting it beside his washing sink and grabbing for the handle of the refridgerator at the back corner of the bar.
She turns back to the folding patio doors that have been completely folded back to open the rest of the bar to the light breeze and dark thunderclouds looming on the horizon.
As she's about to return to facing the liquor shelf and the possibility of engaging the bartender in some repartee about the abundance of craft beer options, she glimpses Glamour making his way past the high bar stools and tables towards the patio.
"Nice to see you, Kinkade!" she calls out, waving one hand at him. She hears the clink of glass against masonry and knows the bartender has returned with her requested drink.
Cygnus flashes Glamour a grin before swiveling her chair to face her hopefully-strawberry-and-not-beer drink.
"Oooh! A Sangria!" she says. "I didn't know that's exactly what I wanted."
850 words
[/presto]The bar was quiet, but that was to be expected for week-time happy hours, especially as the Games, and the resulting kick-off of the social season, loomed ever-nearer.
Secret Haven occupied the spot of hallowed haunt now that the once-favored Old Orleans Lounge had become swallowed by its usual clientele's taste for... 'unethical swinging' one might say in a hushed voice with quick, darting eye glances about the room, but only if one was looking to mask the distasteful truth as though it were a cheap vodka getting dumped into a mixed drink instead of the bright gem of forthrightness it was intended to be.
If there was anything that had been drilled into Cygnus' head over her eighteen-year tenure with The View, it was that nobody likes drinking cheap liquor when the top shelf stuff is only 6 inches and a pitance away.
More simply, that few hungered for the truth anymore.
Hunger, she mused, returning the olive skewer to her martini, biting with that extra gin she'd requested. Does anyone know what that is anymore?
She almost laughed at herself. Of course there were those who hungered. They were made into murderers, thieves, drug-addicts, alcoholics and psychopaths (if they weren't before they were reaped...) once every year at the cry of a name and the sound of a gong in a masterfully-created landscape that was at once art, set and resting place.
Though Games were her life and business-- what else besides sex scandals and fashion frivoloties sold magazines these days?-- they were hardly her passion. Hardly her hunger.
Years of working for The View had nearly pressed that hunger from her breast like olives were pressed for oil or grapes for wine, but it wasn't gone yet. It was as tenuously grasped as her martini glass currently was, but like her passion and her drink, she couldn't allow it to warm just yet. Not for the likes of The View.
The word 'journalist' when applied to herself gave Cygnus the same distaste as 'unethical swinging' applied to the act of men seducing secretaries despite the sweet nothings of "only you, baby" they whispered into silken sheets of their wives' beds.
She smiled as she brought the martini to her lips one last time to sip at its remains, her thoughts moving to her... friend? comrade?... associate, Glamour Kinkade. Young and hungry was an understatement for the successful, salacious and ever-stylish Capitolite.
Immortal and ravenous, Cygnus decided suited her ally.
Now that her position at The View was secure after years of scraping her way to section editor, she enjoyed taking the Mondays of her long weekends to touch base with contacts before heading into the week with her own carefully filtered recipes to make a spread of gossip and articles fit for each full-color, glossy page.
With Glamour, their visits over the years had transitioned from practically pumping each other for information to the close-knit pot-watching committee they were today.
Perhaps this was also why a change in venue seemed appropriate. Secret Haven, despite their pushing of high-caloried craft beers, had an earthy and quiet atmosphere with a beautiful stone, ivy and string light patio that allowed Cygnus her breath of fresh air before diving into the week ahead.
Over her head, a trellis interwoven with flower-bearing vines and small twinkling lights helped keep the glaring sunlight out, shadowing the outdoor bar area with a much-desired coolness, while allowing the city scape and its often barely-there breeze to leak into their otherwise perfectly-curated atmosphere.
"Let's switch to something fruity," she says as she turns to face the young, heavily-tattooed tender at the other side of the bar. "Something strawberry. No beer. Surprise me."
He sets down the glass he was drying and walks over before he gingerly takes the martini glass back from her, dumping the two remaining olives into the scuffed metal waste bin before setting it beside his washing sink and grabbing for the handle of the refridgerator at the back corner of the bar.
She turns back to the folding patio doors that have been completely folded back to open the rest of the bar to the light breeze and dark thunderclouds looming on the horizon.
As she's about to return to facing the liquor shelf and the possibility of engaging the bartender in some repartee about the abundance of craft beer options, she glimpses Glamour making his way past the high bar stools and tables towards the patio.
"Nice to see you, Kinkade!" she calls out, waving one hand at him. She hears the clink of glass against masonry and knows the bartender has returned with her requested drink.
Cygnus flashes Glamour a grin before swiveling her chair to face her hopefully-strawberry-and-not-beer drink.
"Oooh! A Sangria!" she says. "I didn't know that's exactly what I wanted."
850 words
