let's get it on*/ lorelei/lucia

MICA JAYLYN RAYEN

"Im nothing more than a chalk outline"

After ten minutes much still hadn't happened, though it was early in the evening. There wasn't a clock anywhere she could see, which was annoying, though she knew it was probably smart to not have one where customers could see it, though the majority of them probably had cell phones anyways. Mica, however, didn't have one, so she was lost as to what time it was. Either it was still early in the evening--which is what she was assuming--or the place was obscenely slow. Since it was a Friday night, the possibility of the place being slow was unlikely, even if it was bad.

A woman wearing more clothing than the dancers but noticeably less than what "girls going out on the town" would be wearing (at least, Mica assumed they would wear more) caught her eye. She watched as greetings were called, a drink was ordered, and a seat was taken. She was pretty. Her curly-but-not-too-curly auburn hair, her tan skin. Mica watched her for a moment longer before chiding herself silently, telling herself it was rude to stare at a stranger. She'd like to know the name of the woman, though. Later, she decided, she would have to go over and they would have to get acquainted.

Turning her attention to the other women in the bar, Mica was somewhat disappointed in the way they were almost all the same, even if they varied in age. They were all thin--but not so thin as for it to be a medical concern--and curvy, long to medium length hair. Most were white, or at least lighter complexioned. It kind of bothered her, but not enough for her to say anything. Women who looked like these dancers were, after all, the ones most commonly portrayed by the media. The ones who were made out to be "desirable." They were "beautiful" and "perfect." They were the "perfect woman," made for men to enjoy and lust after and use.

More and more often Mica found herself resenting the line of work she'd involved herself in for the past four years. The objectification of women got more and more frustrating with each club she went to, whether it was to work or to hang out and have a good time. Sure, some of the women genuinely enjoyed the work. But Mica had met plenty who had no other choice but to work there; it had been that or starve, or worse. She'd been in that position herself, when she had first started. But it hadn't been so bad then. Or maybe it had been her hunger speaking, her ribs and hipbones sticking out that had convinced her otherwise. She didn't know any more. She didn't care. And she wasn't about to go preaching to the manager or the dancers; they could do what they wanted. They were all grown adults, perfectly capable of making their own decisions (even if some of them did appear to have just graduated out of high school).

She ran a hand through her hair, her eyes sweeping past the woman she'd noticed earlier. She appeared to be doing...something. More than likely setting up the set list for the night, since she was messing with what looked to Mica's untrained eye to be DJ equipment. She had never really paid a whole lot of attention to what was used to play the music; she'd always spent her time focused on the customers that vied for her attention, like she was supposed to. How else was she supposed to make money?

Deciding she might as well get her night started, she slid out of her seat and worked her way to the bar, leaning on it and waiting patiently while the bartender made drinks for another couple. She mulled over what she wanted. She considered, oh so briefly, ordering something alcoholic. She hadn't had alcohol since... She couldn't even hardly remember. How old had she been when she'd stopped? Fourteen? Sixteen? Somewhere around there. She'd promised. Absent-mindedly she played with the leather throng of her dreamcatcher necklace, she shoved the thoughts of drinking aside.

"What'll it be?" The bartender smiled at her and she smiled back, thinking he didn't seem like a bad guy. That was good. The bartender at her current place of employment was an asshole, always trying to get Mica drunk before she worked. He didn't seem to much like the word "No."

"Just a Sprite," she said, shrugging. As the glass was being filled, she added, "Could you throw a couple cherries into it?" She smiled when he plopped four into the glass and set it in front of her on the counter. "Thanks." She drew her wallet out of her pocket, paid for the soda (and tipped him), and headed back to her table with her drink. Leaning back in the chair, she let her gaze fall on the DJ again.

Waiting until she caught her eye, Mica lifted one of the cherries from her glass and set it on her tongue, slowly pulling it into her mouth and separating it from the stem. She was tempted to show off just how good she was and knot the stem, but refrained. For one, there was too much distance between them for the knot to actually be seen. Second, Mica didn't want to just look like a show-off. Sensual, yes. Show-off-y? Not going to happen.

Tags: lucia! | Words: 902 | Credit: 156zcm of Caution
Notes: In their own line