An Empire Of Broken Wine Bottles

Being Less Than Enthused

Oswald swears that as long as he shall live he will never drink with you again. His head is still pounding and his stomach has been rolling in waves all day. He's been on the brink of throwing up for so many hours he feels he's about to go insane.

The club is typically low-lighted, and it is today and for that he's grateful. But he's still wearing the sunglasses, those won't leave his face until he's home and alone and he can agonize in the middle of his bed like a sick child.

The music is far too loud and he finds himself rubbing at his temples, trying in vain to alleviate the vicious throbbing there. Today, Mooney has lounged in the club, and treated herself a queen. She's had business meetings with three different people, and each conclusion has left her in varying moods, and Oswald used just about all of his mental, and verbal capacity for the day just to respond in appropriate fashion.

He's never been this hungover. Ever. And he never wants to be this hungover ever again. Even if your company went hand in hand with another bender.

Mooney dismisses him early in the evening and he takes to his dismal, small office at the far end of the club, away from the music and raucous laughter of patrons with relief and zeal. He's never been so happy to step foot in his cramped and dusty office.

He doesn't have much to do, mostly just go over stock, mark down things they're in need of, and checks to make sure profit exceeds expense on some alcohols and meals and what have you. It takes him longer than he anticipates. Mostly because the words blur and run across the page, they jitter like startled insects and the more he squints, the more he focuses- or tries to -the worse it gets.

Only when his stomach lurches does he lean back in his chair and heave a gargantuan sigh with tightly closed eyes. You were all smooth laughter, and glittering vernacular, and the faintest of alcohol induced blushes adorned your cheeks last night as you talked about this and that, gesturing with your glass in hand all the while.

You were amiable, and charming, and you talked to him. Only him.

He drank to keep up, so only if he did something or said something foolish he could pass it off on the alcohol and not because you made him nervous. You didn't seem to notice.

You had him laughing, smiling without restraint. And even though the arrangement made your features stony, and caused a rain cloud over your head, Oswald couldn't help but feel a little giddy about it. That fate had placed you so auspiciously into his hands.

You were- are -alluring, captivating. You're intense, and attractive, you're fashionable and self-aware. Just a tad cocky, but he finds that too appealing about you. You walk into a room as if you own it and at the same time as if you are far above the venue and company itself. You are modern, but you also carry romantic and optimistic views that are guarded and hidden behind your steely monochrome practicality.

Oswald...is smitten. Lucky him.

A sudden, terse pattern of knocks sounds from his door, and Oswald startles in his chair. The door opens and Butch holds it open wise.

"I can't believe the words about to come out my mouth-" Butch's eyebrows are raised as he shakes his head in disbelief, "But a dangerously attractive woman is out here asking for you. Says her name is...Y/N." he says your name like a question.

Oswald's eyes widen comically. What are you doing here? How did you found out where he worked? Did he tell you last night when he was plastered at the bar? Or maybe after? He can't remember anything past the bar and your warm smile.