Rising quickly on my "to do" list was the action item of ignoring all further requests for dinners such as the one I had been conned into attending under the guise of my honor and in my name. My name? My ass. I had been sorely tempted to remove myself from their deathly grip and move my seat and dinner to the bar, but when the intent had become all but obvious not a single individual had hesitated to call me out. Boredom had become a bitter mistress very quickly, losing her humor the moment the waitress had informed me that my food was going to take a little longer as they had misread the initial order. Rather than wait patiently like a good mistress, boredom wrapped her short fingers around my wrists as if I could fall into the mold of a puppet so she could fanatically wave my limbs to her liking. I would have enjoyed the puppet show from the spectators' expressions, but a very small part of me was grabbing for a life vest of normalcy that remained in having dinner with my incredibly human peers. Whether I would outwardly admit it or not, having a human job gave me a tether to the earth that nothing else could. When my mind was reeling on a wheel of magic and blessed with black cats and black hats, occupying a job meant for a human even if they knew I wasn't sometimes gave me the feeling that the other worldly things that I did? They didn't exist.

I guess those feelings of necessity for normalcy exist only in desperate moments, and this is desperate in the entirely opposite way. Desperate enough that the monotony of the voices from the host and his friends â€" rather, supposedly our friends, I felt my head throbbing and an ache in my fingers to grip something so hard it exploded. With the napkin all but shredded, I had made my way to the bar for something that might act not only as a pain killer, but as a leash for Boredom. With Boredom less than kindly stuffed into her cage, irritation rose to replace her. How long did it take to get a drink? How hard was it to merely service the patrons wading to and from your bar... wasn't that the point of the establishment's existence? My critique was neither harsh nor unjust, supported as my eyes swept the bartenders and their slow service. Nearly everyone who had neared the bar at a similar time had a drink, where the fuck was mine? I licked my lips, tasting the salt of intolerance there before sweeping my fingers over the bar slowly, a bottle of scotch mirroring how my fingers moved. It was only then did the bartender reach for the same bottle to pour my drink, allowing me to hear the fatal words falling from the callous lips of an exquisite witch.

"So patient I make Mother Theresa look like an intolerant buffoon."

My words were expelled under my breath, my eyes roving from the bottles of liquor to rest on the impeccably drawn features of the witch beside me. While I couldn't have told you the perfume she wore, I could have sworn it was something along the lines of a Chanel perfume; costly enough to effuse taste and class to compliment her severe demeanor, practiced under the façade of a sunny blonde. I left a bill on the bar for the bartender as an afterthought as I turned my attention away from their pathetic service with the glass drawn to my lips to allow just a taste of the bitter drink to slip past.

"I am so enticed and invigorated by their conversation that I needed a moment to compose myself."

It was as good a greeting as any other worse, though I was tempted to render my opinion on whether she... Scratch that. Tempted? More like accepting the challenge and preparing to meet the fire.

"Who let you out of your keep?"

The words were wry, clearly slipping unbidden from my lips as I drew another sip of my drink. Gaze removed from her exquisite features and back to my table, I felt my own features freezing in a rather unattractive manner that involved a good bit of narrowing my eyes, and wrinkling my nose. With a slight huff that lacked dignity, I retrieved my drink for another slow sip while letting my eyes train back on the witch in front of me, curious about what exactly I might find in retaliation for asking how the Mother Hen left her coop.