Drunk

One.

please keep in mind im american and i get every slang word from the internet

                                                             One.

   "Ya drink more than any bloke I've ever seen." 

   Milo's gruff accented voice drifted through Shy's numb ears. Her pointer finger outlined the cold rim of the glass of beer in front of her, her eyes unconsciously following the movement. But soon she had to look up at Milo as a strong wave of nausea crashed over her. Her tongue felt swollen in her mouth and her eyelids felt heavy. But still, she managed to give him a wasted smile.

   Milo was a good looking man for being the age of thirty. His brown hair hung in his face, having to constantly sweep it out of his chocolate brown eyes. He always had scruff on his chin and cheeks, seeming to never really get a nice, clean shave. But it gave him a tough look, along with his neck tattoo. The bars dim lights casted shadows on his face, which always seemed to swirl in Shy's drunken gaze.

   "What can I say." Shy burped unladylike. "It's a gift."

   Milo hummed deeply, taking a damp rag to wipe off the wooden counter. "A heads up for ya, my nephew is gonna be running the pub tomorrow."

   Shy waved him off, but the thought of him actually caring enough to tell her made her insides feel warm, and it wasn't from the numerous amount of beers she had. "As long as he has hands to get me my beer, we'll be good."

   Milo laughed at her, his deep chuckle carrying throughout the already nosy pub. "Don't worry, he has hands."

   Shy held her thumb up, giving him a thumbs-up. She slid off the stool that was covered in black velvet, digging her hand into her jeans. The rough material that brushed over her skin caused it to tingle. She took out a handful of bills, not really carrying if it was the right amount of money. She haden't gotten use to going from dollars to pounds. 

   She tossed the money on the counter. Drunken, rowdy men with difficult to understand accents surrounded her, but they didn't try to converse. It was either because she had one of those permanently pissed-off looking faces (even if she wasn't), or the fact she had punched someone when they slapped her ass a couple nights ago. 

   Milo grabbed the money, placing it into his pocket for safe keeping. "You leavin' already? It's only"--he looked down at his wrist watch--"one in the mornin'."

   Shy turned to look at him, something that resembled a smirk fell onto her face. She shrugged her shoulders. "Gotta work tomorrow."

   Milo offered to call her a taxi, like he had been the past week since she moved here. And again, she turned him down, saying she was a tough girl and could fight off any big bad monster that lurked around in the streets of London. Milo looked apprehensive to let her leave, but he never said anything more. She smiled to herself when he actually showed he slightly cared for her. But he would never say it aloud, fearing it would ruin his reputation of being the big mean bartender. 

   Shy pushed open the pub's door, the cold air instantly making her shiver. Even after a week of living in England, she still wasn't use to the cold weather. Her hands gripped onto her leather jacket tighter, wrapping it around herself. She stepped over the sprawled out legs of a passed out drunken man. 

   On the walk back to her apartment, she patted her pockets for a cigarette. Managing to find one, she held it between her slightly blue lips and flicked her black Bic lighter to life. The orange and yellow flame created an eerie glow on her face as she inhaled through the filter. The swirl of smoke went down her throat and into her lungs. The instant nicotine that pumped through her cold body eased the dizzy feeling.