The amber liquid swishes around as she slowly spins the glass, expression blank.
In moments she drains the glass, then sets it down on the counter just hard enough to insinuate to the bartender she’s in need of a refill.
The gesture is hardly needed—she’s one of only a few spending such late hours in the bar on a work night, and the bartender has been keeping track of keeping her glass well stocked.
She rests her hands out flat on the counter as she waits for another, breathing so pointedly that even that sounds almost rehearsed.
“This is your last one, Robin,” the bartender says evenly as the refill is placed before her.
Robin looks up slowly with eyes heavy lidded from exhaustion, the corners of her lips turning slowly down.
“You should get home,” he says with genuine concern. “Let me call you a taxi. Please.”
“Don’t bother,” Robin mutters, grabbing the glass as she slides off the stool.
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