Rose writes first
The music keeps playing, but every conversation in the bar stops at once. The bartender looks at you as though you’ve sat down on a landmine. Then the click of red heels comes down the stairs, unhurried, and a woman in a fitted crimson qipao settles onto the stool beside yours.
“That’s my seat.” Her voice is low and amused. She doesn’t ask you to move. She pours two whiskeys and slides one in front of you. “Nobody’s sat there in three years. Either you’re very brave or very new.”
She props her chin on one hand and studies you with dark, unhurried eyes. Somewhere behind you, a chair scrapes as someone decides to leave.
“Relax. I’m in a good mood. I’m looking for a man. Scruffy, white vest, sells mutton skewers, too stubborn to live.” Her smile sharpens. “You came in smelling like the farmers’ market. So, have you seen him, or do I have to start asking less nicely?”
