STRAWBERRY MILK

1

i.

John taps his finger against the counter like the beat to a song that he can't dance to. He glances around, once, twice; looking the lavish bar over to see if any of his friends have made it yet. He groans when he sees no one familiar, and proceeds by settling back down in the hard, uncomfortable barstool and crossing his arms over his chest. One of his shoes is untied, but he's too lazy to stretch down and re-tie it. He looks again towards the doors, but, to no avail.

Rolling his eyes, he picks at the little string hanging off the sleeve of his new, white shirt. He got it for twenty dollars at an obviously overpriced thrift-shop, but really, he can't complain. Overpriced used shirts is better than brand new ones that cost triple- maybe even more- that price. (Logistics. Logistics.)

Oh well. It is what it is.

He glances back towards the doors again, only to be startled by a quiet cough and a soft, "Excuse me."

He turns his chair around and looks across, only to see a small, well fit girl, with raven locks that fall all the way down her back, and soft milky skin. Her lips are curled up onto a small, hesitant smile, her body clad in a little dress, straps that dip down over her delicate looking collarbones, showing the slightest cleavage and covering her perky bum. Only one thought runs through John's mind. Hot.

John blinks, clearling his throat. He sits up a little. "What do you need?"

The girl blushes, looking down for a moment as if rethinking what she is about to say, before she softly asks, "is it alright if I sit here? There's nowhere else."

John throws her a flirtatious smile, using his hand to gesture to the empty stool next to him. "Feel free."

The girl blushes again, looking down at the counter as she sits, "Thank you."

John looks back, seeing if his mates are here like it's a nervous habit, but when he sees they aren't, he turns back to the girl. He watches as the girl pulls a clear bottle out of her purse, filled to the brink with something pink that looks sort of like Pepto Bismol.

"What's that?" he asks.

The girl looks up, startled, eyes wide, "Oh. It's- uh, it's strawberry milk."

John laughs under his breath. "Strawberry milk? I haven't drank that since I was like, five, probably."

The girl blushes a deep red, opening her mouth to say something, but she ends up closing it. That's when John notices her fingers tapping against the bottle, similar to the way he was tapping against the counter earlier. Her fingers, though, are jittering, almost nervously. John feels light-headed, like he isn't getting enough oxygen. He doesn't know if he has scared this girl, or what, and he feels a bit sick. It's not- he is not judgemental, everyone to their own and all that, but it is weird for him because he can't see why she is so nervous. And he also can't see why soneone would come to a bar and drink strawberry milk.

"Why are you drinking strawberry milk?" he blurts, not tearing his eyes away from the girl's jittering fingers that are gripping loosely onto the bottle.

"I- uh, I just like it, um," the girl stutters, looking down. Her knuckles turn white, and John can tell she is squeezing the bottle.

"S'bit weird," he murmurs, "and why are your fingers so shaky?"

The girl chews her lip, cheeks red and eyes drawn down, shrugging slightly.