Post by Deleted on Jan 29, 2013 15:01:59 GMT -8
Wesley gently tapped his boots against the door frame before entering The Three Broomsticks. It had been snowing all day and didn't show signs of stopping. A lot of people disliked the cold, but Wesley had always been fond of it. The clothing he preferred to wear was best suited for this time of year. Summertime was just...sticky.
He muttered a few 'pardon me's as he shuffled his way through the crowd and made his way towards the bar. 'It must be a Hogsmeade weekend,' he thought to himself. The small pub was never so packed on any other day.
Wesley gripped the back of a chair as he approached the bar. Madame Rosmerta recognized him immediately; Wesley had become somewhat of a regular here. She smiled at him and slid over an ice-covered glass filled with a rich, red liquid. He inclined his head at her in thanks, tossed his cloak over the chair back, and sat down. She always remembered what he liked--Dragon Wine--but that didn't make him feel special. Rosmerta had an excellent memory.
Wesley always came alone. He never spoke to anyone, and nobody ever spoke to him. He'd have a drink, perhaps five, and a cigarette. Sometimes, he'd people-watch or draw. And then he'd go home. He didn't come here to socialize. Rather, he came here to feel like he had a life outside of work and home. He didn't fancy being a hermit. This made him feel like he had a social life without actually having one.
It wasn't that Wesley was horrible around people, or terribly shy. However, he did have a hard time connecting with new people. What's the use of talking to someone you're probably never going to see again? You're just wasting each other's time. Most people weren't his type, anyhow. Too stupid, or too loud, or too rude. He wasn't most people's type, either; he was aware of that. It was best to just not go out of his way when he was already perfectly happy. People were so rarely interesting. If he saw one though, surely, he would risk his valuable time.
'And you wonder why people fancy you a snob,' he chided himself inwardly, smiling and shaking his head.
He had brought some sketching supplies tonight. Wesley was quite talented at drawing, and he enjoyed it, though had always considered it a useless talent to have. It was a nice companion when he liked to people-watch, though.
He set to work sketching a woman at the bar, who he recognized but had never spoken to. She seemed to like coming here alone, too. Wesley had never seen her with friends, at any rate. She was currently nursing a firewhiskey. It must have been a bad day.
He had been sitting in this seat at the bar at least once a week for five years. He could remember only six times he had been approached by anyone aside from Rosmerta. Two of them had been men, asking if he could switch them seats. One of them had been a woman, feeling vengeful after a recent breakup. That had been an unusual--yet pleasant--night. The other three had been co-workers who recognized him and, for lack of anything more interesting to say, waffled on about work until they felt awkward and rejoined their mates.
Someone occupied the seat on Wesley's left.
Tonight would be his seventh encounter.
He muttered a few 'pardon me's as he shuffled his way through the crowd and made his way towards the bar. 'It must be a Hogsmeade weekend,' he thought to himself. The small pub was never so packed on any other day.
Wesley gripped the back of a chair as he approached the bar. Madame Rosmerta recognized him immediately; Wesley had become somewhat of a regular here. She smiled at him and slid over an ice-covered glass filled with a rich, red liquid. He inclined his head at her in thanks, tossed his cloak over the chair back, and sat down. She always remembered what he liked--Dragon Wine--but that didn't make him feel special. Rosmerta had an excellent memory.
Wesley always came alone. He never spoke to anyone, and nobody ever spoke to him. He'd have a drink, perhaps five, and a cigarette. Sometimes, he'd people-watch or draw. And then he'd go home. He didn't come here to socialize. Rather, he came here to feel like he had a life outside of work and home. He didn't fancy being a hermit. This made him feel like he had a social life without actually having one.
It wasn't that Wesley was horrible around people, or terribly shy. However, he did have a hard time connecting with new people. What's the use of talking to someone you're probably never going to see again? You're just wasting each other's time. Most people weren't his type, anyhow. Too stupid, or too loud, or too rude. He wasn't most people's type, either; he was aware of that. It was best to just not go out of his way when he was already perfectly happy. People were so rarely interesting. If he saw one though, surely, he would risk his valuable time.
'And you wonder why people fancy you a snob,' he chided himself inwardly, smiling and shaking his head.
He had brought some sketching supplies tonight. Wesley was quite talented at drawing, and he enjoyed it, though had always considered it a useless talent to have. It was a nice companion when he liked to people-watch, though.
He set to work sketching a woman at the bar, who he recognized but had never spoken to. She seemed to like coming here alone, too. Wesley had never seen her with friends, at any rate. She was currently nursing a firewhiskey. It must have been a bad day.
He had been sitting in this seat at the bar at least once a week for five years. He could remember only six times he had been approached by anyone aside from Rosmerta. Two of them had been men, asking if he could switch them seats. One of them had been a woman, feeling vengeful after a recent breakup. That had been an unusual--yet pleasant--night. The other three had been co-workers who recognized him and, for lack of anything more interesting to say, waffled on about work until they felt awkward and rejoined their mates.
Someone occupied the seat on Wesley's left.
Tonight would be his seventh encounter.
