In your opinion, the bar looks better dark. The sign on the door flipped over to 'CLOSED', most of the overhead lights over the floor turned off; the only light comes from the neon signs over the walls, from the door, and the buzzing warm, halogen bulb that's above the bar. A lunar glow that spreads itself across the space is a dull blue, boasting through the windows of the place; it's haunting, in a way, to see a place that is usually full of life— though some of them aren't worth much— empty, quiet enough that you can hear your own humming.

The smell of alcohol and cigarette lingering in the air is heady on your own tongue, momentarily eased by the salty grease of your cold curly fries. The basket on your lap as you tapped your foot against the seat of the stool, sat up on the bar, your back to the wall of glasses and alcohol.

"Y'er real helpful, girl." Rust's voice is dry— cold in its sarcastic observation. You peeked back over your shoulder. A damp rag between his fingers as he wiped down the counter of the bar, the sleeves of his shirt pushed up to his elbows, sinew in his flesh twisting with his every movement. His cool eyes catch yours, a faux innocence around the edges of your own eyes, blinking at him as you continued chewing on your fries.

You glance over him, the towel over his shoulder, following the serpentine smoke that curls away from the cherry of the cigarette between his teeth, then you nudge the can of his Lone Star closer to him. Unperturbed by the judgement in his raised eyebrow— he'd have to do worse to scare you off, considering you dedicated a good few months of your life to flirting with him after he'd rejected you the first time you confessed, and the time after that. You're almost surprised that he's still willing to deal with you despite all the times you've hit on him.

His eyes moved past you situated on the bar island to the night sky drooling in through the window. "You should be makin' y'er way home now, ain't no one gon' drive you home even if y'er scared."