Best Served Fake

twenty-six // a proposition

"I have a proposition for you," Cole said, swirling the ice in his glass with a straw.

I hadn't seen him around as often recently. Moving in with his friend, that rich socialite girl, Lena, had clearly given him hobbies outside of sitting at a bar and drinking nothing but ice water. He still dropped in occasionally, but I used to never walk through the doors without stopping to greet Cole, who only ever left at closing time. Now, he briefly popped by to say "hi" every week or so, and was otherwise notably absent. 

When I'd left Will's house this afternoon, I hadn't expected to stroll into work and find Cole there again, but I'd been pleased. I missed him, even though he was really Madeleine's friend. I couldn't find it in me to be sad about his absence though; the contentment in his eyes shone like a beacon; a satisfied glimmer of happiness, so unlike the despondent, weary expression of the two months prior. It was such a marked change; I couldn't help but be relieved.

He still didn't have any non-embarrassing clothes. His shirt was neon pink, blinding, and depicted a sea lion riding on a horse.

I didn't even know where he bought these clothes. Who designs that?

"I'm not investing in your multi-level marketing scheme," I responded immediately, polishing the inside of a wine glass. "Trust me, Cole, you will not become a multi-millionaire by selling body soaps that you bought from someone else who sells body soaps."

Cole frowned. "Bold of you to assume I have the motivation to be a business owner."

I exchanged a look of exasperation with Madi, who was serving a customer on the other side of the room, and therefore couldn't have possibly heard what Cole had said, but who rolled her eyes in response on the assumption that Cole had said something stupid. Which was usually a fair assumption.

Cole caught the look, and flicked my hand admonishingly.

"So, what is this proposition?"

A hesitant expression passed across Cole's face. He was grimacing; it looked as if he was about to announce that he had murdered my mother in a rather gruesome fashion, and didn't know how to best break the news.

I looked away from him and back to the glass. "Nope."

"What?"

I polished the rim of the wine glass carefully, before noting a lipstick stain and tucking it back into the dishwasher. "Your face tells me that I won't like it, so I'm saying no."

"Okay, you might not like it," Cole said. "But you might love it! Who knows? So many outcomes. Hear me out?"

"Nobody should ever hear you out," said Madeleine, swinging herself around the counter with a notebook in hand, customers' orders neatly printed in her tiny handwriting. "You never say anything useful."

Madeleine was dressed in a beautiful black dress with carefully applied makeup and big black boots that undercut the elegance of the outfit but added instant cool factor. I'd seen her wear it the dress before; it had an open back that revealed the long length of her spine, which would've been inappropriate for work if she hadn't pilfered one of the larger sizes of apron that covered most of the outfit. It was a date night outfit; or, if I knew Madeleine, it was a sleeping with Jamie outfit. I thought back to this afternoon, struggling to recall whether Jamie had mentioned any plans. He'd said lots of things—Jameson did tend to have a complete monopoly on word volume—but hadn't mentioned anything about a date with Madeleine.

"Oh, well, I wouldn't go that far," I said to Madi; she flicked her sleek ponytail in response.

"Thank you, Valerie," Cole said. He gave Madi the finger. "See, this is why she's my favourite."