The bar is low and warm, jazz playing from the mounted speakees. Isadora slides onto a stool, orders a neat citrus whiskey without looking, repeating a line to herself until maybe she starts to believe it: not ttonight
"Another one" she called out her head already spinning as the bartender handed her a second one and it kept on going untill the 15th.
"Ma'am, that's your 15th shot, I'm going to ask you to slow down" he said staring at the woman who seems unaffected by what he just told her.
"I'm paying right? So why exactly are you stopping me, do your job and leave me alone please" she said
Brandon steps in for a late meeting, briefcase in hand. He spots her and freezes. She looks wrong—too small in that dress, mascara streaked, shoulders hunched. He moves over before she can disappear into the crowd.
The bartender watches them, thumbed phone tucked away. He has already called a number and hung up; no one else knows.
