Hale (plus Ciarra, Indie, Mitch & Jane)

"It's good to meet you, Ciarra."

The girl nodded in response, gifting Hale with a joyous smile to go with it. Always forgetful to reminding herself to return smiles at appropriate times, Hale's lips nonetheless worked of their own accord to meet this particularly joyous challenge. [Your characters are always so smiley! Why such smilemonsters, love?]

Curbing the bizarre urge to prolong this first meeting with a curiosity that would ostracize the rest of the room, Hale let go of the girl's hand and stepped backward once more, barely touching the kitchen counter right where it met the cheerily yellow-stained ceramic sink. [Use more concrete terms! Describe the feeling of the situation through the (apparent) physical characteristics of the folks that make it up, yeah?] Finally looking away, Hale did one more quick room glance trick before settling down at Indie's side for a minute to address the still-to-fore neglected inquiries of her dearest, silly friend.

"Since you ask, lovey--I slept something like an awful pitiable excuse for sleep," now, just as not-accidentally, positioning herself away from Ciarra's potential translation, less she offend the girl whose bed had been most graciously relinquished to her. Knowing it wouldn't matter anyway, she didn't extend the same courtesy to Jane--the mother's ears were physically perfect, no doubt, but her attention was inevitably elsewhere.

"It's so goddamn SILENT in this godforsaken sad imitation of a civilized town," Hale finished with faux-forlorn simplicity.

"What d'ya mean "silent"!? Didn't you hear the spiteful garbage kids at daybreak?!!"

"The only hour of peaceful shut-eye I got. And lemme tell you--the screech of breathing life!...'twas a sweet thing, girlfriend." She sighed heavily into Indie's skeptically bent/cocked/tilting head, and then addressed her friend's man/beau, the lumberjack look-alike lover, Mitch Beckham. "Mitch. What's up with getting me some work tonight? If I don't start working again soon y'all are gonna find me unnaturally hanging from my walk-in closet with fuckin' slit-wrists & ankles."

The guy smirked, mildly amused but not about to get crazy about it, it seemed. "You're up, nine to close, no problem."

"That's what you say now, but if you don't let me come till freaking nine, I'm liable to get shitfaced beforehand. How's about seven instead, cool guy?"

"Eh..." Mitch hesitated, not slightly irritate at the damn-near blackmail right along with the utter sense of almost bored entitlement in the face of his favor--spouting like nothing from the ungrateful mouth of his lady friend's best friend. Hale didn't take a word of it back in the down time though, and he reluctantly conceded, needing an experienced bar"man" after all. And being a practical sort of shrewd fellow, he recognized this hard won acceptance of her friend's "situation" would put him smack dab in the middle of a saint's photograph in Indie's wild camera-shot mind's eye. Plus, he liked helping people out...occasionally even without direct praise/appreciation for doing so. [Not a fan of Mitch suddenly, huh?] [Come on, come on! Let's make it more in line with reality...people like Mitch aren't all bad, and maybe aren't even due our casual scorn! Rather, they are aware of the multitude of reactions and consequences of their actions, paying close attention to these, and making colorful plan-outs of where they want to be, and how they will be seen when they get there. Remember, and be compassionately aware that the most evil of our nature can only/best be borne through intelligent means. You know that, love...you live with it too, recall. As most people do.]

(It's like the biggest fuck-ups are the easiest ones to cover-up with claims of most unfortunate irresponsibility...)