Her tongue slid languidly across the cool metal surface, mouth opening in a perfect pout to swallow the last drops of the liquid-cream confection. He had never heard of anyone who poured liqueur over ice cream, however, he didn't let it bother him. He'd seen stranger.
"You up for it?" The words slipped past her lips thickly; cream, half melted. She allowed the sugary sweetness to pool on her tongue before she swallowed it and fixed him with a light stare.
Leaning back in the uncomfortable black iron grated chair, he watched her finish her drink- if it could still be called a drink- through lidded eyes. The sickly green light of the flourescent street lamps washed over her complexion, accenting planes and making her seem far, far, older than thirty. He hated the lights, the lights that took special pleasure in illuminating the ugly and the false. Outside of their forbidding glare the street seemed darker, the grime denser. Distressingly cheerful French music warbled out of a broken down radio in the bar window, until it was stopped by a drunken snarl and sharp backhand. A fight began, for the umteenth time. Neither he nor the woman paid it any mind.
"Why here?" He forced out, after several minutes of the screams and sounds of smashing glass. The woman idly twirled her spoon between two fingers, her other hand tracing the grated pattern of the table. He noticed for the first time that she was wearing no shoes, taking her chances among the waterlogged cigarette butts and broken glass with nothing but silk stockings as protection.
"Are you saying that you would have been more comfortable in a.... fancier setting?" She asked wryly, her mouth twisting upwards in an expression of amusement. It was an expression he loathed; it was one that excluded him from the joke, while she and the world laughed on.