He hardly glances at the shot glass set in front of you before addressing the bartender, Gabe, who's been on stand-by, often lingering close to fulfill any requests. "Whose compliments?" Reese inquires.
"That gentleman."
When you turn your head to locate your admirer, who lacks baseline intellect, Reese hooks two of his fingers around your pre-purchased shot. It's in between where you're both seated, clearly visible to all. "How sweet," he notes with a derisive curl of his lips. Going out for...
Possessive R. Verner? Yes, please. 😏
_ _ _
[Alternate Text: An image of shots lined up along a bar's edge. They're backlit to showcase a variety of alcohols ranging from clear to rosy and possibly something malted brown.]
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