"Do you live around here?"
Cheryl's constantly taunting character does not fool me into believing she is harmless or trustworthy. On the contrary, I distrust her heavily, although I somehow do not feel threatened by her. I generally view people as a menace, so this is an odd happenstance.
"Does it matter?" My counter-question is brisk, but not in any way aggressive.
A broad smile pulls at her lips. "I gotta know how drunk I can try to get ya tonight."
"It's a shame I'm driving, then."
Hopefully, my reply was not too suspicious. Whether or not I would be attempting to learn about her is inconsequential, though. Considering I am highly aware of the harmful effects of coffee to the point of never drinking it, I could never endorse the consumption of alcohol. I mean, alcoholic beverages are basically the evil stepmother of caffeinated drinks.
Playful as always, she concurs, "A real shame. But, hey, I always drink for two, anyway."
The young woman winks at me and hops off the couch, strolling in the direction of the mini refrigerator. If my liver was in shambles and still recovering from having been slashed wide open, I would be scared to even take a sip of soda. Well, 'scared' is maybe a bit of an overstatement. My point is, alcohol is infamous for destroying the liver and Cheryl does not seem like she could care any less about her health. Which begs the question, why do I care so much?
Ugh, I need to get back on track. This is infuriating; her mere presence distracts me more than I have ever experienced with any other individual.
"Do you come here often?" I ask her, hoping for a concrete answer.
My interlocutor sits back down, showing off her long painted nails by pulling the cork off the unsealed wine bottle which she is clutching with her right hand. The sharpened tips of her nails are coated with a sleek black nail polish, accentuating the beautiful curves of their lower halves.
"Uh-huh," she distractedly enunciates, lifting the bottle's neck until the opening brushes her lips.
I watch her as she gulps lengthily on the pale liquor, forcing myself not to get discouraged just yet. My gut told me to pursue my investigation for a reason, and I intend to persevere until I validate my instinct.
She adds to her prior response, setting the bottle down against her right thigh:
"And you don't... Or else I would've noticed you before."
Her voice is slightly ominous, so I retort with amusement to lessen the tension.
"Oh, would you have?"
"Yes. I've got an eye for pretty things."
A knot grips my throat and my mind goes blank, I am unable to form any coherent comeback. Luckily for me, she was not done speaking and she finishes her statement with an innocent query: "Can I see it? Your fedora, I mean. It's a really pretty hat, I... Like it."
Her self-satisfied grin indicates she was fully aware of the meaning that her sentence suggested. I inhale subtly, slowly handing my hat out for her to grab. She snatches it from my hands and expertly pulls it down onto her head, without messing up the position of a single strand of her hair.
"That looks good," I simply remark, hoping flattery might get me somewhere.
"Yeah, you definitely live around here. No one as sweet as you would willingly hang out in this place."
The young woman seems confident in her statement, which could work in my favor. If I do not deny it, her false success could urge her to open up. Besides, judging by the fact that she is currently taking another swig of wine directly out of the bottle, I do not think I will need to scheme much more soon. Her foreseeable intoxication will dull her inhibitions, along with her ability to swerve my inquiries.
"What about you?"
"Oh, I live far away. But my boyfriend basically owns this... Savory establishment. So, I spend a lot of time here."
"Savory?" I repeat, intrigued and somehow entertained by her strange choice of words.
"I've always found it very tasteful." She laughs, rolling her eyes to emphasize the irony she employed. "Although, you must agree with me on some level, right? After all, you're here tonight instead of any other nightclub in town."
"The name is my favorite part, I hate to admit it. It's the only reason I'm here."
Cheryl smirks at my joke, swiftly transferring the long clear glass bottle from her lap to in between my fingers. She proceeds to scoot forward on the couch we are sharing, readjusting the straps of her leather top.
"How many paramedics do you know who hang around the Cock-and-Bull?"
I smile halfway. "None. How many do you know?"
"Well, one. You." She pokes my shoulder with her index finger, grinning. "And you should know yourself, so, that makes one for you, too."
Startled, I snicker at her remarkably insightful comment. The young woman's sense of humor is shockingly clever.
"Sure, you could say that I am my own acquaintance... And yours, now."
"And what an acquaintance you are!"
Her excited statement is unanticipated, yet appreciated. I often forget how friendly extroverted people can be, due to how many of them relinquish this potential, trading it for boisterous arrogance.
"So are you, Cheryl," I lightly reply.
The gangster's girlfriend shrugs, before retrieving possession of her wine bottle. "Please..! I'm just an aspiring performer with criminal ties, but you..." After belting down more alcohol, she concludes her thought, "You help others, savior. That's really cool. You're really cool. Plus, hanging around here..? You must be pretty spicy, huh?"
Chuckling is the only appropriate response I find to her rambling string of compliments. Perhaps it is not such a bad thing to let her believe she's asking me questions. Manifestly, she lets information slip out when she thinks she is in control. Additionally, I can divert suspicion this way.
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're just hungry."
"Starved, actually."
She breaks out into desperate laughter, stopping only to pound back the remaining volume of liquor inside the bottle.
"Is there any food in here? Maybe in the fridge?"
"Oh, don't worry, I'll eat later. I haven't today, is all... Hey, d'you think there are calories in this?"
She raises the emptied wine bottle at the level of her face, scanning the nutritional facts label thoughtfully. This is different from my usual method, I usually just eavesdrop on conversations, not engage in them. I am able to socialize, but this is nerve-racking, nevertheless. The stakes are high and I feel very uncertain about each of my decisions. If this night turns out to be a huge waste of time, I will be disappointed in myself for believing I could pull this off, taking for granted that I have not been murdered by The Bull and thrown in a ditch by then. I am presumably only safe as long as I remain alone with her.
"Surely a couple hundred."
"Yeah, you're right. Six hundred-ish. Do you like being a paramedic?"
She takes my fedora off, tossing it between my thighs. Pinching the edge of my hat, I answer her:
"Of course. I'm following my passion and doing something I'm good at. Just like you with the performing arts, I suppose."
"Right on. I love singing. And dancing. And art, overall."
Her pupils slowly drifted down as she spoke, leaving her to stare attentively at my bracelets.
"Chains," she muses, either already in a drunken daze or reflectively. Perchance both.
I hesitantly propose, "Do you like them?"
"Do you?"
I feel my cellphone buzz in my back pocket, which oddly pressures me to try out a risky comeback.
"You tell me."
Now, I am aware that riskier things have been said, and, no doubt, Cheryl has heard most of them. She might have had the distinct pleasure of discovering countless racy and salacious innuendos over the years, but that does not cancel out the possibility that she could react negatively to my reply. Especially if she is under the impression that I... Desire her. Whether or not I do is truly not necessary to ponder about right now.
"I guess I should." She scooches again, further reducing the space that initially separated us. "Yeah, I like 'em, they make you look hot. Thing is, ya still have to answer me."
To my great inconvenience, I sense heat coursing through my cheeks. Thankfully, I do not blush easily nor vividly. Keeping my voice steady and casually kind, I retort, matter-of-factly:
"I'm wearing them."
"For what reason, I wonder?"
She deftly slips a few of her fingers against my skin and underneath one of the bracelets. She tugs softly on the chain, lifting it away from my right-sided wrist.
"Why not?"
I could simply admit that I enjoy how they look with my outfit... Somehow, I am convinced that I can learn something if I keep dodging her inquiry. She pushes my chain back and forth with her fingertips, sliding it between her fingers distractedly.
"Hm, I really thought you were going to whip up a speech on prejudice right there. You know, the world's greatest evil."
Her tone communicates a wish to toy with others around her, which makes her true intentions undecipherable. Most likely, she does not care about the treacherous, insidious menace that stereotypes have always posed in our world. Although, that would be a judgement without basis, an assumption of her character that is devoid of proof.
"Prejudice is a bane," I nonchalantly state, awaiting her response.