We sat down in what I can only describe as a bar crossed with a cafe. The first thing I noticed about this place was the biting chilliness of the room; Alice and Amy didn't seem to notice, but it had to be close to 50 degrees Fahrenheit in here— it didn't bother me obviously, but it did take me by surprise. The space also seemed scarcely populated; writers in the corners looked stressed and exhausted, typing away with a click-click-click-clack on their keyboards of various styles and sizes. The bartender, a young woman at the bar, was twirling her long black hair around her finger, whispering into another woman's ear as they saw us enter. The other woman giggled in response to the bartender before prancing over to the three of us.
"Americans, oui?" The girl asked, her voice bubbly as she clasped her hands in front of her. Her eyes were bright blue in a way that made me question whether she was an Angel or not, but I couldn't feel the energy coming off her. "You are, erm... How is it... High-breed?"
"Jason," I answered politely, ever so slightly bowing. "I usually go by Jason."
The girl looked ecstatic, her eyes widening when I expected them to glow. "Oui, of course! My name is Chloe, I will be your hostess for the evening. Monsieur, mademisoulle, please follow." She shot a look to the bartender, wry and suggestive. "My friend over there," she waved over to the other woman, "Will bring you drinks free of charge." Her accent was thick and somewhat hard to understand, but soft, almost fluid. It was quite calming, her cadence, like a wave that could stop without you noticing and pick up again without startling you.
Amy pushed her glasses up, piping in, "W-We'll, we're eighteen, underage."
"Not here!" She sang back, "Ne vous inquiétez pas, it is no problem; just café— or coffee."
"Can you make mine Irish?" I ask gently, drawing a worried look from Amy. "S'il Vous plaît?"
The woman led us to a table, raising an eyebrow at me. "Oui, please, make yourselves comfortable."
The woman quickly stepped toward the bar, leaned over it, and whispered to the bartender— barista? If they make coffee, they'd be considered a barista. The bartistender? The woman whispered to the confusing person behind the bar and in response, they both looked at me. The one who had escorted us in looked at me with intrigue but the other seemed to find us, or perhaps me, disturbing.
I slid into the booth we had been led to, in the seat facing the door.
"Jason," Amy began gently, "w-when did you... when did you start drinking?"
I looked at her eyes and I opened my mouth to say something sarcastic, something cold out of instinct, but her eyes were so... concerned. I muttered, "I don't know," instead.
Alice sat beside me. "He doesn't drink much if that's what you're worried about," She said with a bitter fringe along the edges of her voice, "but when he does, he's not doing it for fun. It's a medication, not an activity."
"Alice." I huffed. I looked at my tired, worn, frustrated friend and sighed, "Don't take her tone too seriously," I breathed to Amy before turning to face her again, "she's probably not feeling the best right now. It takes a lot out of her when I drain her like I did tonight."
Alice pursed her lips and huffed, "Do not do that. Do not. You know I hate when you do that."
"Do what?" I felt a smirk cross my lips as I found and fidgeted with a chipped and scuffed glass drink coaster in front of me.
"Treat me like, like a book or something." She sounded out of breath, a small chuckle in her voice. "Reading me and telling people what I mean." She said this softer than she had spoken to Amy; her words were angry but her tone was closer to adoration. It sounded like how you would say 'Goodnight' at the end of a nice date, or whisper 'Good morning' the night after an even better one. "I hate it."
