Pamela tossed back the tiny glass of pink-tinged amber. The bartender was a pretty redhead, hair a few tones more tangerine than Pamela's own, and had insisted on the raspberry whiskey as the cure for the summer heatwave, and a broken heart. The bartender is deftly lining up pint glasses under the tap, filling them with one hand while she rims shot glasses in a bowl of sugar with the other. For what feels like hours but can't be more than a moment, Pamela lets her gaze watch as agile fingers make art of cheap liquor.
The blonde appears suddenly, not even allowing Pamela time to adjust to the smell of jasmine and sandalwood before she knows she's staring. She has long, platinum blonde hair curled away from her face, and a black heart tattooed under her eye. Blondie gestures behind the bar to Tangerine, but Pamela can't actually hear the words, favoring to watch the way Blondie's lips twist around the words instead. Pamela doesn't know how long has passed before she hears "--something you like?"
The words sound like their spoken underwater a mile away, but it brings Pamela back from her enraptured previous state. She gives a quizzical look to the blonde.
"What was that?" Pamela asks, finally.
The blonde doesn't look at her, instead smiles at the bartender she takes a shot glass from. "Asked if you saw something you liked. You keep staring," Blondie gestured at Pamela's empty glass she didn't realize she was twirling on the bar, "And it looks like we're bothing trying to forget someone."
The blonde's drink is darker than Pamela's, but she throws it back quickly and doesn't let the burn register on her face. She's wearing a bright red dress that cuts off above her knees and a black half-jacket that falls just below her chest. Pamela isn't sure who she's trying to forget, but she'd be happy to help.
She doesn't say that. Instead, she wordlessly slides her glass across the bar, earning a sad smile and a refill from Tangerine.
"You could say that." Pamela says, just barely loud enough that she's unsure if the blonde could hear her in the bar.
Blondie finally slides on to the stool next to Pamela, and Pamela's heartbeat flutters at the thought she might be here a while.
"So what's your story, morning glory?" Blondie has a thick, old-timey Brooklyn accent. Naturally, Pamela can't help herself.
"What makes you look so blue?" She sings back, and it earns her a smile from the blonde. Pamela's own smile falters when she remembers how she ended up here in the first place. "I- um- got stood up at the italian place down the street. Figured I'd stumble in here and make my peace with being alone before I headed home that way."
Blondie gives a curt shake of her head. "Men! What do you do?!" She tips her drink towards Tangerine.
"Amen!" Tangerine echoes in response, clinking their glasses before they each shoot the liquor back. Pamela's face filter must not be working properly under her buzz because Tangerine smiles at her, and says "Don't worry. I don't have a drink with all of my customers. Barbara." She reaches out a hand. Pamela isn't always in a mood to shout her sapphism from the rooftops in the comfort of strangers, so she just stays quiet and shakes it.
"Pamela."
**
Blondie's name is Harleen, Harley for short, and Pamela is content on getting stood up every night of her life if they all end up like this. She's got intense, frosty blue eyes and she's made herself comfortable in the booth they've squeezed into, languidly dragging black fingernails along Pamela's inner forearm. It's hard for Pamela to focus on anything else.
“So what do you do?” Harley asks. They've pumped the breaks and are alternating between glasses of sparkling water and ciders. Pamela can't seem to tear her eyes from the soft curve of her lips.
“I’m a botanist. Doctor Pamela Isley, at your service.”
"Harleen Quinzel, former psychiatrist."
"Former?" Pamela knows she shouldn't, but she can't help but ask.
The soft curve of painted-red lips stretch into a thin line, and Pamela feels like she hit a nerve. She wants to see Harley's bright smile and white teeth aagin, and she resents every saying anything to lose it.
"Unimportant." Harley says finally "But since we're airing dirty laundry, why not tell me what got you here, Red?"
Pamela decides she deserves that, but she doesn't have an answer. Instead, she gives a tiny shrug.
"I wish I knew. She told me she'd meet me at 8, and I still haven't heard from her three hours later."
"That's bullshit!" Harley spit so abruptly that it made Pamela flinch. "You know what? She- she doesn't deserve you! Every minute of those three hours have been stellar, Pamela Isley."
Pamela couldn't fight the smile, and she let her body lean into Harley's. There was a comfortable warmth swimming in her belly that she was sure would make for a massive hangover the next morning, but right now, it was all golden.
Part of what she was pretty sure was her sober brain desperately wanted to push her lips to the plush red of Harley's. She probably tasted like strawberry sparkling water and sweet bourbon. The only thing stopping her from standing up and marching Harley home was the fact that she was almost positive standing right now would be the most graceless thing she'd ever done.
Then she remembered that, as far as she knew, Harley was painfully heterosexual. The comfortable warmth grew heavier in her stomach and it felt like the whiskey she had shot back earlier had reignited.
"You're so damn pretty, Pammy. Prettiest lady in Gotham." Harley slurred softly into her drink, pushing the straw around gently.
At that, Pamela didn't know what came over her, and she found herself pressing her lips to Harley's. To her own suprise, Harley kissed her back, lips soft and wet despite the careful paint. She was positive that it was the alcohol in her belly giving her the new found confidence, and part of her was sure Harley would never see her again. At that moment, everything was bathed in the same rose-tint she had tossed back so much earlier, and everything felt right with Harley's lips against hers.