Post by wood on Jul 4, 2011 16:59:36 GMT -5
Oliver moved into the small pub with a sort of sense of trepidation. It wasn't as though he didn't enjoy a good drink now and then; he was just not at all fond of the hustle and bustle of the city. There were too many people, too many prying eyes. In true form, when he walked in eyes followed Oliver from the door to the bar, and then from the bar to the table he'd chosen near the back. When he sat down, he let out a sigh of relief, feeling more comfortable now that his every move wasn't being watched.
He put his glass of single malt whiskey down in front of him, rubbing his forehead tiredly. He had been in his brand new study all day working on his playbook, which was coming along nicely. He had taken some of the plays he'd used at Hogwarts and revamped them, made them more difficult to block. But now he found he had a crick in his neck and a lot on his mind. That was the real reason he'd made the trek down to Diagon Alley on that Saturday night. A stiff drink and a little bit of forgetting. He didn't intend to get overly drunk, just a little happy.
He'd even changed out of his sweats to head down, instead putting on a collared shirt and a v-neck knit to keep out some of the cold. His jeans were well worn and his leather shoes hadn’t quite been worn in yet, but this was as presentable as he could be, as far as Oliver was concerned.
Lifting his glass again, Oliver swirled the liquid around in the tumbler, then took a long drink as he looked around the bar. He didn't recognize anyone, but then... he didn't know many people. His liquid courage was encouraging him to talk to someone... but whom? The thing was that he didn’t have much luck with meeting new people – partly because women were intimidated by his sheer size and men were intimidated by his profession. Maybe, just maybe, tonight would be different. Oliver hoped so, since his solitary existence was getting to be rather tiresome.
Not only tiresome, but full of nagging. His mother had taken to owling twice a week, usually asking when she was getting grandkids, as well as when he would be coming home – and bringing a nice girl home with him. The letters were piled up on his bedside table, waiting to be replied to. He had every intention of ignoring them for as long as possible.
His drink was getting low, and so Oliver made his way back to the bar, less shy this time, and ordered another.
He put his glass of single malt whiskey down in front of him, rubbing his forehead tiredly. He had been in his brand new study all day working on his playbook, which was coming along nicely. He had taken some of the plays he'd used at Hogwarts and revamped them, made them more difficult to block. But now he found he had a crick in his neck and a lot on his mind. That was the real reason he'd made the trek down to Diagon Alley on that Saturday night. A stiff drink and a little bit of forgetting. He didn't intend to get overly drunk, just a little happy.
He'd even changed out of his sweats to head down, instead putting on a collared shirt and a v-neck knit to keep out some of the cold. His jeans were well worn and his leather shoes hadn’t quite been worn in yet, but this was as presentable as he could be, as far as Oliver was concerned.
Lifting his glass again, Oliver swirled the liquid around in the tumbler, then took a long drink as he looked around the bar. He didn't recognize anyone, but then... he didn't know many people. His liquid courage was encouraging him to talk to someone... but whom? The thing was that he didn’t have much luck with meeting new people – partly because women were intimidated by his sheer size and men were intimidated by his profession. Maybe, just maybe, tonight would be different. Oliver hoped so, since his solitary existence was getting to be rather tiresome.
Not only tiresome, but full of nagging. His mother had taken to owling twice a week, usually asking when she was getting grandkids, as well as when he would be coming home – and bringing a nice girl home with him. The letters were piled up on his bedside table, waiting to be replied to. He had every intention of ignoring them for as long as possible.
His drink was getting low, and so Oliver made his way back to the bar, less shy this time, and ordered another.
