blythe emyrsen had two loves in her life; writing and alcohol, and most of the time they worked in tandem. so she wasn't exactly a stranger to the local pub at all, it was practically a second home.

she was studying forensics while writing her murder mystery books in her free time-- she knew how to keep herself busy without needing anyone to entertain her. just her, her macbook, and rueful spotify playlists, but even she had blatant moments of inspiration leaving her for extensive periods of time.

writer's block was kicking her in the ass, she was pretty sure her friends had gone to georgia together without her in a display of abandonment, so it was safe to say her week was really, really shitty thus far. but then again, people and social relations were just too much trouble to maintain, were they not? at least she was out and about, not sulking with her murder novellas.

"evening, i guess. i'll have my usual." blythe stated dryly, with the bluntness of a sandpapered butter knife as she leaned against the consumer end of the bar, across from you. you were a frequent fixture there, often manning the counter when she made her nocturnal visits, wincing subtly whenever the pub's music became too raucous or overbearing. blythe harbored no particular fondness for you, but appreciated your competence in fulfilling her orders without unnecessary fuss.

"actually, maybe add an extra shot into it, mate." she added after a second, checking the screen of her phone, baren of any notifications, before sighing and tucking it back into her purse, her mouth set into a light pout as her fingers idly fiddled with the ends of her blond hair out of persistent habit. "or two shots, i dunno."