Indignation are the kind of thing that fade with time. And time did pass. Injuries received, healed. New ones received. Dreams dreamt, then forgotten.

And men drink, drank, drunk... and then sobered up.

Which means it's about time for a drink.[/color]
Anthony hopped out of the cab, paid, and made his way into the bar. There was the usual crowd. The door was open, late afternoon breeze bringing fresh air into the bar.

Wandering in, Anthony summed up what he was going to do, and to put it succinctly, nothing your mother would be proud of. He sidled up to a particularly good looking blond at the bar. Black dress, black wedge heels, and legs that made you sit up and take notice. Va va va voom.[/color]

She had an apple martini in her hand, and a set of the shoulders that said 'Come on, Anthony, Try your luck.' Who was Anthony to deny a lady his company?

"Hello, darling, have you ever heard ab- Oh. It's you." Anthony felt the keenest of disappointments for a few moments. "Hello, Layla. Or have you lost your memory again? Whiskey." He addressed the last to the barkeep, some random newbie, and laid his head down on the bar, hand outstretched, and closed his fingers over the cold glass when he felt it.

Xavia blinked a few times and turned face to look at him, lifting a hand to tuck a stray lock of the shining blonde-in-a-box. Her crimson lips curled upward in a half smile as she regarded him with a cool stare of her candy brown eyes, and she gently lifted her shoulder in a shrug. She took a sip of her Apple-tini, and set it back down on the bar. “What’s it to you?”

She turned around in her stool and slowly eased a leg over the top of the other, amused by his obvious disappointment that she was not a strange bombshell who wandered into his drinking hole. “Layla is now just my stage name, Anthony. I know who I am and where I come from, and I am all me again.” Well, more than who she was, actually, she was this new girl. Sort of.

The lounge singer sighed then, and leaned back against the bar. Her eyes closed as she cradled the glass in her palm, and she tried not to think about the events that played out over the last few days. Her foot tapped at the air, and she hummed to herself, eventually to crack her lids apart and regard him with a sidelong stare.

“Look, I am sorry for having hurt your feelings. I wasn’t myself. I haven’t been since before you even met me.” She closed her eyes again and downed the rest of her drink. Xavia was like this for a few moments more before her small frame eased off of the stool and she moved to set the glass on the countertop. From there, she moved over toward the jukebox, attracting some admiring stares. She hardly paid heed to said gazes, merely pulling out a quarter and inserting it into the machine. She punched a button and some classic rock started to play over the speakers.

Layla shuffled at Anthony, ominously. When her glass went back down, he looked sidelong at her hand. Clean and confident, manicured. And then he put in a moment to study the wood grain of the bar. Meticulously cared for, well lacquered but dinged and dented.

“What’s it to you?” said Layla. The lofty and imperious tone was Layla's. Anthony lifted his head a quarter inch and let it fall with a low, muffled thunk.

“Layla is now just my stage name, Anthony." thunk

"I know who I am and where I come from, and I am all me again.” Because that was such a graceful, majestic beast. thunk

“Look, I am sorry for having hurt your feelings." Oh? Apparently I'm the one loosing my memory. thunk Anthony studied the dings. There was no graffiti. The bar was cared for and loved by patrons.

"I wasn’t myself. I haven’t been since before you even met me.” "Right." Muffled sarcasm was lost on her as she shuffled ominously after a moments silence. Then set down her glass. There was a peaceful interlude, and Anthony realized he still had the glass raised in the air, in his hand, where the bartender had left it. He sat up and turned in on his seat.

She was sauntering over to the jukebox. Now, some people in the world imagine that they saunter. And some people describe walking or trotting as sauntering. But, in his long and diverse time observing the female form, Anthony had seldom seen someone so in complete possession of a room full of men, saunter.

She put a quarter in the jukebox, and put on something Anthony didn't actually hear. It was music, but he couldn't hear it. Didn't really want to hear it. Standing, he walked over, wallet in one hand, whiskey in the other.

"You are beautiful. Positively gorgeous. You have the eye of literally every man in here, even me. But you know what? I liked you better with dark hair." Anthony lifted his glass to his lips, but stopped. "And I really don't know why, but the girl who passed out in the Alley was running from something. And the last time I saw you, you were desperately running to something." Anthony put his wallet back in his pocket, slipping something out of it.

"I don't know what's going on, I feel like I've been peaking in on a play, catching the end of each act. I guess you're done, taking your final bow." Anthony held out a napkin on it, the hotel address and room belonging to Layla. "You moved. I would to. Heard a nasty piece of business went down. Lady staying the room you gave me killed some scumbag. Too bad. Vivaldi in Carnegie Hall. Not The Vivaldi, he's dead." Talking too much, Anthony. Anthony looked at her again. Va va va voom, but scary.

Why must he always be so… so…. Irritating. It was clear he hadn’t cared a wit what she had spoken, so why, then, did he have to bother following her? And then… Oh... then… he pushed her buttons by insulting her while giving her a compliment. She threw her hands up in the air and turned on him, “You don’t give a rats ass and you know it.” She stalked toward him and lowered her voice, “Every time I see you, you insult me and then have the audacity to get pissed off when I say something –you- don’t want to hear. And then you want to keep in touch with me? You weasel.”

She grumbled and snatched the card, placing it into his drink. “If you cared a wit about me at all, Anthony, you would know more about me, would you not?” She lowered her voice even more, “You would know that that scum bag tried to kill me first, and that I have had people after me for quite some time for that little ‘magic show’ or so you say, that I put on for you. And furthermore, you would know that I ran away because I don’t want to be some effed up lab experiment and feel another needle jab me in my veins.”

“But you are probably not even –listening- to my rant in any case.” With that, she stalked away from him and back to her seat, ordering a shot. She then spoke to herself, “And I bet you lied to me about being beautiful too.” She snorted and took the shot when it was given to her. She really didn’t care what men thought of her looks, to be honest. Xavia was not a vain creature at all. It may seem like it to him, but she only dressed the way she did because she was a rising star and it was part of a code of conduct. Also, she changed her hair because she wanted to, not because she wanted to be a blonde bombshell, but because she just…. Wanted a change.

She tapped the bar for another shot.

Jaws creaking in raw frustration, Anthony listened to a potted plant on two legs lectured him, again, about attitudes and twist pointed remarks that fell as little more than platitudes. But that was fine. He, to some extent, probably deserved it. But she called him a weasel. A weasel. Whether in action or resemblance, simile or metaphor, character or characterization, Anthony Davids, gentleman and connoisseur, was Not. A. Weasel. Ever.

As retorts and insults began to congeal in his throat, fighting for the rights to be the first vitriolic statement to pour from his lips, she planted (Heh[/color]) the paper into his drink. Dismay drizzled from the very top of his head like lukewarm honey, seeping through his veins with the cold, heart stopping power of arsenic and strychnine.

"But you are probably not even –listening- to my rant in any case." And then she walked away.
Anthony muttered, low and quiet. His voice contained the remorseful tone of having watched the butchering of an old friend. "Well, no. You put paper in my whiskey. I don't think I deserved that."

As he walked back to the bar (because with women it's always wandering back and forth) and taking his seat, again, he placed his whiskey next to her shot.

"Hi. Can we start over? Just pretend I've lost my memory, for a change. I'm Anthony, and I'm kind of a self-absorbed jerk.Your cute, what's your name?" Then, as the words finished passing his lips, before they went silent, he downed his paper laden whiskey in one pass.

And fell, spluttering, out of his chair and to the floor, trying to swallow bits of paper, wheezing around the burn of tainted whiskey.

God, would he just… stop following her? Her eyes shot to him as he planted himself next to her. The caramel was not warm in her gaze, but chips of frozen amber instead as she let him talk to her... And then she watched with widening eyes as the weirdo drank the piece of paper she put in his drink. Lovely!! She stood and her gaze went heavenward for a brief moment. She grabbed for his hand then, attempted to haul him up to a seated position, and then gave his back a couple of thwacks intended to dislodge the paper without being too hard.

“I guess because you decided to literally eat your words, I should forgive you…” There was no laughter in her voice, though there was certainly some surrounding them at the amusing display. The whole bar had been watching them since her arrival and his approach. Yeah, nothing to see there, folks, she thought.

“Up and Adam,” she said with a sigh. He had been mean to her. But she hadn’t come to this place to look for a fight. All she had wanted was to have a few drinks. If he let her, she would help pull him up, though he would have to do some of the work too, of course. At the proximity in which he was, he would be able to smell a subtle scent, it was like roses. But not actual perfume, you know, the kind that simulated the smell? No, it really did smell like roses, and it was a natural smell.