The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind
She gives him the space he needs as he downs his glass. Though she has not finished her own, she does not try to keep up with him. Perhaps she could, but their size difference alone suggests that she’d be a fool to find out. Instead she takes another drink of her own, leaving only a few sips left for now, and nods to his glass. ”Another? I have been playing with some of the recipes Maea left me for cider, along with some ideas we had been spitballing around. What you had was only one of them.” If only Maea were here to help her. She suspects they would have a whole list of ciders and cocktails already done, but Weaver found the going a bit slower without a friend to do it with. She could ask Korbin, but had decided against it. He was only helping because of her, and she didn’t want to push him any farther.
Weaver’s already sliding off the barstool as she talks though, heading around the bar, suspecting the answer to her question was going to be yes. ”What are you in the mood for?” she asks, though she has some ideas. Perhaps today simply called for something strong and quick and to the point.
As he responds though, she stops, turning to focus on him. ”You are not the only one who has lost nearly everyone. I’m not unfamiliar with the feeling. I watched my father die in a bed covered in his own piss, vomit and blood. My mother left one morning and simply never came back. My brother bleed out in the damn snow next to me saving my life.” There is something almost hard about her voice, though it is not unkind and it does not lack understanding. She leans across the bar, one arm resting on the bar and holding her up, closing some of the distance between them. ”It fucking hurts. But to sit at home and become a hermit? Tell me, would that really make you happy? Because I am willing to bet that everyone you have ever lost would only want you to live. So you live with the pain. It becomes a part of you. I want to say it stops hurting, but it doesn’t. It just becomes something different.”
Weaver’s already sliding off the barstool as she talks though, heading around the bar, suspecting the answer to her question was going to be yes. ”What are you in the mood for?” she asks, though she has some ideas. Perhaps today simply called for something strong and quick and to the point.
As he responds though, she stops, turning to focus on him. ”You are not the only one who has lost nearly everyone. I’m not unfamiliar with the feeling. I watched my father die in a bed covered in his own piss, vomit and blood. My mother left one morning and simply never came back. My brother bleed out in the damn snow next to me saving my life.” There is something almost hard about her voice, though it is not unkind and it does not lack understanding. She leans across the bar, one arm resting on the bar and holding her up, closing some of the distance between them. ”It fucking hurts. But to sit at home and become a hermit? Tell me, would that really make you happy? Because I am willing to bet that everyone you have ever lost would only want you to live. So you live with the pain. It becomes a part of you. I want to say it stops hurting, but it doesn’t. It just becomes something different.”
Weaver
