“So…”

            She says this quietly, her lips just above her cup. The frothy liquid touches the flesh as she speaks again,

            “Are you ever going to tell me the truth?”

            She leans the cup back and lets the liquid slide down her throat. The man next to her lets out a noise; a low pitch scoff that’s accented by a roll of eyes (in the opposite direction, no less)

            “Don’t know what you talking about, Ariadne.” He says quietly, examining his own cup. The amber drink is still all there, little sips being taken every few minutes. At his sister’s side is already three cups, the dregs still moist.  For a moment, he wonders if he should feel upstaged.

            But he doesn’t.

            “Of course you do, Jimmy. You’re not that stupid.” She laughs but it’s a bitter laugh; she’s tired of being yanked around like a dog on a chain. Still, she keeps her temper in check. It’s her little brother she’s talking to, she reasons; he just doesn’t get it yet.

            Doesn’t matter that he’s only 8 years younger then her, and that she’s only at the tender young age of 47.  One wouldn’t believe it. She looks younger, a lot younger, almost too young. “Good genes and a healthy diet,” she would say, whenever she was asked. But it would be a lie.

            She’s used to lying.

            Because her genes are shit and her diet consists of whatever she can scavenge and alcohol. Lots and lots of alcohol.