dinner and a show - zaria

[MEGAN ALICE BUTLER]

[/i] she thought to herself. It didn't actually fit into the situation, as it was more of a lament than anything, but Meg was never not one to apply Shakespeare to everyday life. The playwright was one of her passions and one of the only things that she had left of her father.

Approaching the bar, Meg took a seat, plonking her arms down and trying her best to radiate an aura of "do not disturb" to the other patrons. There were a few college kids who were giving her furtive (what they thought of as furtive, what Meg saw broadcasted loud and clear) looks, and she just glanced over before they were giggling. Rolling her eyes, she brought her attention back to more important things, such as what to order.

Great. More interaction. the Irishwoman thought to herself grumpily. The heat didn't have her in a good mood at all. Her pale skin burned instead of tanned, and she hated being blotchy due to heat. Sweat was also unpleasant. Meg blamed her heritage for her heat intolerance, and it was probably partially true. Ireland wasn't known for its harsh heat as much as for green grass and rain. "Coke, please." she called out to the barista with a slightly forced smile to show that she was trying to play nice for once. No one had to suffer just because she was unhappy, even if she desperately wanted to run around screaming bloody murder. That just wasn't her style, it would pull way too much attention to herself- although, Meg might indeed go insane if the college boys didn't quit their giggling.
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[/b][/color] [color=b
white]incomplete[/color][/font]
LYRICS;; Highway to Hell, AC/DC[/font]
TAG;; zaria[/font]
OUTFIT;; cut-off jean shorts, leather jacket, unidentified soccer jersey[/font]
WORD COUNT;; 493[/font]
OTHER;; Sorry, that was kind of short![/font][/ul]

[align=center]TEMPLATE MADE BY La-La-Lia FROM CAUTION 2.0 ![/align][/size]

[ajane]

The atmosphere inside the Hard Rock Cafe was amped up. Boys giggling over their half-priced happy hour pitchers of beer added to the sounds of the rock music that blasted out of the speakers. Waitresses donned out in their black sleeveless mini-dresses hurried back and forth, their shoes squeaking on the clean floor. This was Zaria's kind of party, from the woozy frat boys to the incoming crowds of college kids and families. The more people, the more Zaria could blend into the crowd.

It was still relatively quiet. Zaria had just gotten off work a while ago. Her linen pants stuck uncomfortably to patches on her legs and she shook them free, trying not to snag them on the top of her black suede BCBG boots. She'd kept stumbling around because of the wardrobe malfunction. She turned over her wrist and gazed at the slight redness where she had spilled steamed milk onto herself. What type of person did that? A klutzy one, that's what. Thankfully, her white top had been covered by the apron or else she would have been walking around covered in coffee. She'd been working for a week now and she still couldn't get the hang of all the gizmos and gadgets. Hopeless as she appeared, she had managed to get through another eight hours, promising herself a nice, cold beverage at the Hard Rock. It was more than "Calamity Zee" deserved, but she was willing to overlook a few oops-a-daisies and accidental spills just to lift her spirits.

Unfortunately, she was here so often that the bartenders were starting to remember her by name. She was no longer the girl that worked down the street in the coffee cart and entertained patrons by being a total klutz. No, she was Zaria, the girl wearing her job and ordering happy hour drinks and just existing here.

There was movement at the other end of the bartop. A woman had just walked in and ordered, looking both warm (why was it so insanely hot outside?) and irritable. Another peal of laughter sounded in the bar behind them and Zaria glanced over her shoulder, rolling her eyes as she saw the boys at the big table chugging the last of their beer and ordering more for a harrassed-looking waitress. The poor thing.

The bartender appeared in front of her, looking relatively cool and relaxed in the small, black dress and easy smile. "Dirty martini, extra olives." She asked the bartender, slipping her bag onto the counter and pulling out her wallet. Her gaze went over to the other woman. Zaria's first thought was that she was a gangster of some sort. She just had a solid presence that didn't come over as the cutesy way most girls walked in by themselves, looking hopefully at the boys at the bar table. If anything, she was doing her best to ignore them. Zaria didn't recognize her from the university, either. Not that it would matter, being there were thousands of students.

As the bartender worked at getting out their orders, Zaria couldn't help but wonder if the uniforms were more comfortable than the stuffy polyester blend that they appeared. "I wonder if they're cool and comfortable," she voiced aloud to the other girl at the bar, dropping her chin onto her fist. After all, she was a girl and girls tended to know these types of things.

tag: Meg; words: 553

[MEGAN ALICE BUTLER]

[/i] she berated herself, immediately nodding a little. "The employees? I think. They have to sit here all day." her Irish accent caught around the words, muddling them a little, and Meg sighed, wanting to slap herself. Usually, she could lock down on the natural accent, how she was brought up to speak English, but today was not going to be one of those days, it seemed. It was too hot out for rational thought, let alone pretending to be a nice civilian to strangers in bars.

I swear, if I get a million questions about it, I'm going to- Meg didn't finish the rather petulant thought as her Coke arrived, locking sweaty fingers around the icy glass. She sipped, and it was like heaven for a moment, as she escaped from the heat. Her irritability slowly faded away for a moment, and Meg turned to face the other woman a little bit more. "It is so hot out," she sighed, putting the glass down, but keeping the fingers of her left hand near it as she raised the other hand to the back of her neck. The chill was pleasant against her hot skin, and so she repeated the gesture again.

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[/b][/color] incomplete[/font]
LYRICS;; Highway to Hell, AC/DC[/font]
TAG;; zaria[/font]
OUTFIT;; cut-off jean shorts, leather jacket, unidentified soccer jersey[/font]
WORD COUNT;; 548[/font]
OTHER;; - - - - - [/font][/ul]

[align=center]TEMPLATE MADE BY La-La-Lia FROM CAUTION 2.0 ![/align][/size]

[ajane]

Zaria wasn't sure why she started talking. It wasn't like she was shy at all. More reserved. And while she was reserved enough to avoid drunk party boys, she wasn't shy enough to start a conversation with the only other person at the bar. She didn't seem to like the frat boys, either. It seemed like no matter where Zaria went, the drunk boys seemed to follow. It was one of those things that had taken a little getting used to, but she had gotten used to it, hadn't she?

Her martini arrived and Zaria slipped a few crisp bills across the polished bar top. The vodka tasted good, stinging the way hard liquor should before settling. Today was a good day for a cold beer and a jar of peanuts, but she had a reputation to upkeep and that seemed to involve fruity drinks served in martini glasses. She wasn't that big a fan of beer, anyway. Nor was she a fan of peanuts. Unless they were baked into 'seven layers of heaven' bars with their gooey chocolate, peanut butter and coconut-layer goodness. She preferred the homemade bars over her coffee house's copycat bars. They were good, but they certainly didn't taste homemade. Maybe someday she would figure out how to make them.

Still, it helped to work inside air conditioning. While it was five thousand degrees outside with humidity to match - her hair would suggest that the humidity was as close to plugging her finger into a light socket as she could get. But aside from continuous use of Frizz-Ease and other products to make her look cool and comfortable, it must be comfortable to work inside. Working in front of a coffee machine that sputtered espresso and frothed milk was not cool. She ended up smelling like she'd been swimming inside a bag of coffee beans. Such was her life. She had chosen this, after all.

"It really is hot out," Zaria finally said, a touch of sympathy in her voice. The other girl looked miserable hot and was drinking something that lacked alcohol. Even with the leather touch, she didn't look like she belonged in a biker gang or worked in one of the establishments in the neighborhood. Then again, what did Zaria know? She was as judgmental as they came and one of her goals had been to stop judging the person by what they wore. She set down her martini glass on its napkin and gave it a little nudge away. "I don't think I ever want to go back outside." It was the truth, but it was also the only way she was going to get home. Home being the operative term for the house she had grown up in. She really didn't want to spend more time than necessary at her parents' house, but for the summer, it was where she stayed. Luckily, the house she lived during the year would be open again soon enough, so maybe she could sneak away and return to her true home. Maybe.

"Your accent," Zaria added softly as her fingers started prying apart fibers on the paper napkin. "I can't place it."

Oh, she could if she tried. But part of her wanted to keep the conversation going. Keep herself from delving into her own thoughts, dark as they could be.

tag: Meg; words: 571

[MEGAN ALICE BUTLER]

[/i]

Meg let out a soft sigh at the sound of sympathy that she caught in the girl's voice. She guessed that she look just as bad as she felt. Her loved leather jacket was tossed up on the bar, the sleeves of her soccer jersey were pulled all the way up on her shoulders to reveal pale skin that was just starting to turn pink from sun exposure, and her hair- Meg wasn't even a particularly vain person, but she didn't even want to begin to think about how bad her hair looked.

"I don't think that anyone ever wants to go back outside," she chuckled wryly, looking around at the room again. The frat boys had finally settled down a little bit, to her relief, and she noticed a few businessmen and women who looked out of place and exceedingly uncomfortable in the corner. They were all nursing ice water. Meg was more than a little amused at that. Yeah, she was drinking a non-alcoholic beverage, but at least it wasn't water. Maybe it was business hours, still, but Meg shook her head a little. They should find a better place to hole up than the Hard Rock Cafe.

The girl's voice took her off guard again, asking about her accent. Not another freaking- she cut the thought off, offering the girl a half-smile. She would play nice, no matter how hot it was and how many questions she got about the accent. Meg wasn't even a foreigner, technically, she had her citizenship since she was eight, and had worked for the government for ten years. That was pretty American, even if her accent stuck. "Irish, coming from County Kerry."

A slight pang of nostalgia hit her for the "good old days" in Ireland. Her parents had moved her to America when she was eight, because her father's mother had cancer. The woman had died all of six months later, and Meg was taken by the CIA about a year after that. Ireland was the best memories that she had, while America was more or less a big place full of people who enjoyed trying to kill her. Eye of the beholder, she reminded herself with a little smirk. The country was perfectly lovely when she was a civilian, Meg's thoughts just tended into a little bit of a darker territory.

"I'm Meg," she offered to the girl, spreading a little bit of a smile so she'd appear just a bit more friendly. "I'd shake hands or something, but it's too hot out."
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[/b][/color] incomplete[/font]
LYRICS;; Highway to Hell, AC/DC[/font]
TAG;; zaria[/font]
OUTFIT;; cut-off jean shorts, leather jacket, unidentified soccer jersey[/font]
WORD COUNT;; 545[/font]
OTHER;; - - - - - [/font][/ul]

TEMPLATE MADE BY La-La-Lia FROM CAUTION 2.0 !

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