🗸 the quintessences of cherry & cigarette

4.5: effervescence

He seats himself on a high stool and she takes the one to his right. Cerise looks about her surroundings - at the people, the drinks on the shelves, the place - completely unaware of Devin watching her like she is some rare phenomenon that only he is lucky enough to witness. The lights flashing all around them highlight her in bursts of neon pink, green, blue giving her appearance an otherworldly allure. There was a time when he abhorred poetry, now he can write countless poesy - albeit cheesy, amateurish, mediocre serenades - to, for, and about her.

He inwardly cringes at the high-school-lover-boy avatar that takes shape in him, then comes to the realization that only Cerise Miller can make this egotistical, 'impervious to human emotions' Devin Jameston cringe at himself. Cerise Miller has him in the palm of her delicate hand. And she is oblivious. She is always so oblivious and clueless, it kills him.

When Cerise's gaze returns to him, Devin smiles at her, leaning forward and asking, "what do you want to have?"

She appears to be thinking, looking up a little, and he notices that the obsidian of her irises capture the strobelight flashes; multitudes of chemical sparks - he imagines this is what the birth of the solar system must have looked like. She answers with something, but he misses it in the din of the EDM and his distraction. Eyebrows raised, he loudly says, "what? I couldn't get you."

This time, Cerise leans toward him. Taking him by a tender grasp of his chin, she turns his face to the side and speaks into his ear. "Whatever you're having."

Her closeness, her lips brushing the shell of his ear, her breath fanning down his neck - Devin nearly fails to register what she says. All he can do after is nod at her, and force himself to look away from her. He swallows the calcine air that clings to his throat and waves down one of the bartenders at the far side of the bar.

The bartender saunters up to them, bringing out a pen and an order slip from beneath the counter and sliding them over the counter top. Devin picks up the pen and writes ′4 tequila shots', then pushes it back at the bartender, who reads it, nods, and puts up four small shot glasses in front of them. He fills them with a clear liquid, placing a plate of lemon slices nearby before going to attend to another patron. Bubbles travel up from the bottom of the glasses, living out their short, mundane lives by breaking the surface, touching the air, and dying in miniature explosions.

Picking up a shot, Devin drinks it bottoms up, his teeth clenching tight as the harsh fluid flares down his throat in a zesty, flavorful sibilation. He takes a lemon and sucks on it briefly, letting the citric taste add to the whole feel-good factor of the tequila. As he puts the lemon back, he glances at Cerise, seeing her observing him intently. He moves a glass over to her; she looks at it with suspicion, like she doesn't trust its contents. Angling himself closer to her, Devin says, "go on. It won't bite."

She sifts between the tequila in front of her and Devin, making him wonder if he should have just gotten a Coke for her instead. But then, she seems to make up her mind. With her jaw set, she takes the glass and tips its contents into her mouth, swallowing quickly and reaching for a slice of lemon. Her eyelids screw shut, her nose wrinkles up in the most adorable manner. Ultimately when she looks at him again, there's that excitement, that addictive zeal in her, sparkling in her eyes like buried treasure coming to surface. "Another," she rasps, coughing a little.

"Slow down." Devin chuckles.

After four more tequila shots each, the music having slowed to some generic pop song, he decides it's enough for Cerise. She is slumped heavily against the counter, staring at the tissue that her fingers are worrying to shreds. Slowly, she dips forwards until her forehead touches the counter top and closes her eyes. At this point, Devin gets uneasy. He lays a hand on her shoulder blade.