(no subject)

[just_cant_lose]

 
Jim, circa 1992, enters the bar from somewhere where it's obviously raining. Like, a lot. It's not Ireland, judging by the language briefly heard before the door clicks shut. He looks up from shaking his umbrella off, and his previously neutral expression twists into something like ugh. But, fine. Whatever. His neat jacket-and-shirt ensemble is horribly damp, so here's as good a place as any to dry off a bit.

'Just a coffee, thanks,' he says to Bar, and takes off his (fake) glasses to polish the steam away. The briefcase he was carrying is placed carefully on a stool, and he runs his hand through his neat swoop of hair to mess it up a bit. Everything about him today is artfully preppy. A tidy young man going about a productive life.

Bar gives him his coffee. And a basket of bright and shiny Easter eggs in a wicker basket. Jim pulls a face at it.

'I don't get to go hunting for them like a five year old? Seems unfair.'

The basket remains despite his ungratefulness. He shrugs and picks it up, and finds a sofa near the Window. Five minutes later he's deep into a Crème Egg, and the hollow ones are being rattled for hidden sweets. What? Even teenage genius assholes like chocolate.


[OOC: Open all weekend, and probably beyond. Yay for holidays!]