A new group had started to come in now, jingling at the doorbell and, for a moment, the ruckus of the streets came through. She saw a group, teenagers, make themselves at home, but for now, paid them no mind.
This bartender entertained, he surely did. She watched intently the ember liquid cascade down to the glass like a tumbling waterfall, swirling and gurgling as they hit the bottom. As he raised the bottle, she saw the motes of dust dance in the filtered ember halo around his green headscarf, the brightest thing of wear he had on him. What was under this cloth, she thought, before he handed her the glass.
Lenne laughed at his 'thirsty kitten' comment. "This kitten appreciates this drink," said the woman, raising the glass in a toast. A hand automatically plucked a silver coin off her pouch and placed it on the counter. "My name is Lenne. No last name. Just Lenne."
As she sipped, her eyes ever played on him, returning his prolonged gaze. She had not quite placed what he was.
What drink would she be.
"Fascinating. See, I'm an alchemist." Fingers of her free hand tapped the counter in a staccato rhythm. "So, when you ask me that question, a bunch of stuff comes to my mind, see? Compounds, alcohol mixtures, acid, a Molotov cocktail even though, thank the gods, I'm not that, yet. A better question would be: if you were a vessel, what would you be?"
When she whispered, leaning in, his face was close enough for her to smell cinnamon breath from those pearly teeth. An intoxicating haze. Her broken smile foreshadowed her next words.
"My colleague, Reimu, gave me this one gift, once. A shattered bowl, held together by a precious metal. It had rivers that split into streaming deltas of gold flowing down the cracks, filling them in a glimmering light that glow from the granite grey as it caught the light. At once, the workmanship fixed the bowl, and at once made it far more beautiful than the plain bowl it used to be."
She allowed herself to lean back, taking a second sip, drawing a deep breath. Her hand clasped the whole, unbroken, cup.
"Imperfection, mister. The craft treats breakage and repair as a part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise." She was rambling, she knew. "I am so very flawed and broken as that bowl, but I hope who I have become is better than who I was. Because I was an arrogant woman. Breaking wiped most of it away, I reckon. Don't laugh."
Ah, but the rot lingered.
She indicated to the drunk. "That man. He has a scarf on his belt. A Wyrdwood Academy blazon. A fallen student, perhaps, he was once? A scholar disillusioned by the grandeur? Or what he found in his books as he wrote his papers?" A snort left her lips. She found herself drawing her next draught of the strong liquid.
"And what drink might you be? How come you to starting this speakeasy? Ever thought of making it into a brothel?"