|Location||Mutiny - Mutant Town, NYC|
|Summary||Rich and Tiffany don't have one.|
| This bar has little to recommend it save the price of its drinks - beer and hard liquor only - and its tendency to not ask questions of its customers. The place is poorly lit, perhaps intentionally so, with close tables and booths that always seem to be a little sticky with something. The dim interior is colored with flashes of orange and red and yellow from the constant, strobing flash of the neon signs in the front window. The only decor in the place is a twist of thick, fraying rope that drapes one wall on its way to an iron anchor: the remnants of some long-forgotten nautical theme.
There are often card games of some nature at the larger tables in the back. Rocco, the ever-present owner, tends to know just about everything and everyone in Mutant Town. He'll often give odds on just about anything it's possible to give odds on, and provides information on the Town's not-so-secret mutant fights, or where to obtain illegal items and substances, if he likes the look of you.|
Sunday night is not the most happening; most people are kind of depressed about the week starting again. But it's good for some quiet drinking which is what Richard looks to be doing. He's at one end of the bar, a plate scraped clean of dinner pushed aside and an amber-hued drink in hand. He looks down at the drink, expression thoughtful. Or, let's be honest, a shade melancholic. But that's just Rich.
"Boo," Tiffany deadpans, suddenly appearing behind and to the right of Richard ...after having made her way over from the door. Setting her clutch down on the bar beside him, she slides off her coat to reveal the navy blue dress beneath. Her hair is smooth and her makeup is simple. "I just had the worst food date," she rumbles, heels clicking beneath her as she climbs into the nearby open barstool.
Richard startles. He doesn't jump out of his seat, but he gives Tiffany the satisfaction of her shoulders jerking. "I -- what?" He turns to her, blinking as he tries to catch up. "Food date? Is that, like -- your date is food?"
"Is that a thing?" Tiffany asks in what might appear to be all-seriousness. Where can she get in on this? She settles into place, crossing her legs, "It's when you only agree to go on a date because there will be free food." The young woman brings up a finger, pressing it to the corner of her faintly pink-painted lip, "One word. /Tapas./"
"I -- no, I don't think so," Richard says, brow furrowing faintly. "Oh. That's -- kind of rude. I mean, do you really even have room to complain if the date's bad in that case?"
"Ugh." Tiffany responds to Richard's sound logic with a theatrical eyeroll, turning away from him briefly to order a beer. A very cheap beer. The cheapest beer on the can list.
"Hey, if you only went out with him to mooch of him, you probably deserved a crappy date," Richard says, solemn and a little big-brother in his lack of sympathy.
"Listen, I'm not going to feel guilty about this," Tiffany leans back on the stool after receiving her beer. She takes a quick sip from the can before setting it down on the cheap bar-coaster that the barback sets out in front of her. "If some troll asks me out with express interest in fucking me and forgetting about me, I give myself permission." She arches her eyebrow, "How's your date going?"
"Okay, okay." Richard lifts his hands in offering of surrender. "My date? What, with my drink?" He looks down at the glass skeptically.
"Yeah," Tiffany answers, switching her crossed legs and eyeing the glass seductively, "He looks hot." She's not one to judge anybody else for sitting at a bar alone. After all, that's exactly what she came here to do. "Sorry. Did you come here to be alone?"
"I mean, not in the way that you have to scram and go find your own bar or anything. It's fine." Richard lifts his drink to take a sip. "Sorry your date was crappy."
"Thanks," Tiffany's eyes reveal a lazy amusement, "See? That's all a girl wants to hear." Her attention drifts to her can, which she fiddles with, "No, but how's the boyfriend? Where is /Professor Wallace/, this evening?"
"We're not--" Richard lowers his drink and looks down at it. "We're not -- boyfriends. I mean--" He sucks on a breath through his teeth.
Mikhail has arrived.
Mikhail has left.
"Oh," Tiffany tilts her head, picking at the beer can's table with her nail idly. She doesn't seem to notice the nature of the response. At the very least, she isn't really invested enough in either party involved to react. "Did you ever play the game when you were a little kid where you move the tab back and forth while you count the alphabet? Like, to see what the name of the person you are going to marry will start with?"
Richard huffs a very quiet breath of laughter through his nose. "Yeah, actually," he says. "I do remember doing that. I think the girls did it more than the guys, though."
"I'm gonna try to get R," Tiffany coos flirtatiously. She turns up her chin and wets her lips in preparation before turning the tab, "Okay, a... b... c... d..." The tab begins to loosen more and more. She pauses to look towards Richard, if only to add an element of suspense. "E... F... G... h... i... j... k... L... M-" On M, the tab clicks off into her palm. Tiffany gives Richard a sympathetic pout, "Oh, well. Looks like you dodged the bullet."
"Alas," Richard says, voice solemn. "Maybe you'll marry -- uh, I dunno. Moody? That's convenient, you already live with her."
Tiffany waggles her eyebrows, "I don't think she's the marrying type. Unless it's for medical benefits." Sliding off of her stool, she flips open her little purse, "Do you smoke?" She wags a crumpled, near-empty pack of cigarettes in offering.
"Nope," Richard says, like he might be apologetic about it, but not really. At least she's getting up to presumably go outside. "Haven't you heard? It gives you cancer."
"And drinking kills your brain cells," Tiffany coos, placing a long white cigarette between her lips and holding it there while she produces her lighter. "I'll be back," she warns. Her heels click as she saunters outside.Richard tips his drink at her. Fair enough, it says.