Six hours in. "Only six more to go," Gogo thought to herself. Being a bartender wasn't bad, she'd just rather be in a nerd lab testing which magnet created the least amount of friction. But..that wouldn't be happening anytime time soon. She pushed the daydream away, her nimble fingers handling another glass with a certain grace. Dim, yellow lights hung above her, flickering, coating the bar in an almost melancholy glow. She had seen just how dependent some people were on this stuff—it was..upsetting. She sighed, pouring the rest of a classic '92 whiskey, eyes half-lidded and dark. She gave a regular their drink, only giving a small nod in return of their thanks. She wasn't having the best night, wishing she could just go home and rest until this ever growing pinging in her skull dulled. The music definitely wasn't helping her headache either. The girl took another order, mixing Tito's with club soda. She couldn't think. Why was she so out of it? God, she could barely focus.. As much as she may have disliked it at first, the constant chatter and laughter helped keep Gogo awake, ensuring she'd overwork. She needed to overwork, get overtime, get more hours. If she didn't, she'd go hungry.

She leaned against the bar—listening to a customer mindlessly vent while they gulped down hard liquor— till the front door clicked open. Naturally, she looked at the customer, expecting another divorcee with a patchy beard. Or maybe a group of frat boys with fake IDs. Her eyes widened when she saw the one face she didn't expect on a Friday night like this. Yours. She felt her mind clear as she straightened her stance a bit, throwing up her hand in a lazy wave. A rare, near invisible smile graced her lips as you came in.

"Hey," she greeted, her voice low and leveled.

Gogo ran a hand through her black hair, the strands falling messily against her forehead as she began polishing a dirty glass with a hand towel. A neon sign hummed, the faint, vibrant light carving out her sharp features.

"The usual?"