(no subject)
Who: Irene and Brian
What: alcohol, love potion, matrimony. Y'know, the usual Saturday night.
When: second night in port
Where: a Kissing Town bar
Warnings: inappropriate romance is inappropriate!
Irene was getting really, really sick of hearts.
There was a red one that had been floating behind her all afternoon, tapping insistently upon her shoulder and then flitting over towards males, as if to say, "Look! This one! This is a perfectly nice specimen right here, how about a little swooning? A kiss, maybe? Hand-holding? Anything?" She had the distinct impression that the damned thing was actually mad at her, now - it was bobbing around agitatedly - like a match-making aunt whose every suggestion had been shot down.
The entire town was beginning to get to Irene. And after the fiasco that morning, she was about ready to drink herself happy again. And so she found herself sitting on a stool in Kissing Town, rapping her knuckles against the wood of the bar and waiting for her drink, cursing the very word 'romance'. Love is wretched, she though to herself.
What: alcohol, love potion, matrimony. Y'know, the usual Saturday night.
When: second night in port
Where: a Kissing Town bar
Warnings: inappropriate romance is inappropriate!
Irene was getting really, really sick of hearts.
There was a red one that had been floating behind her all afternoon, tapping insistently upon her shoulder and then flitting over towards males, as if to say, "Look! This one! This is a perfectly nice specimen right here, how about a little swooning? A kiss, maybe? Hand-holding? Anything?" She had the distinct impression that the damned thing was actually mad at her, now - it was bobbing around agitatedly - like a match-making aunt whose every suggestion had been shot down.
The entire town was beginning to get to Irene. And after the fiasco that morning, she was about ready to drink herself happy again. And so she found herself sitting on a stool in Kissing Town, rapping her knuckles against the wood of the bar and waiting for her drink, cursing the very word 'romance'. Love is wretched, she though to herself.