Kurt had learned to accept who he was, and refused to change for anyone. The shame that had been pressed upon him so long ago were shackles he never wanted to feel again. Ordering a beer from the bartender (glad to see that it’s a german variety he’s somewhat fond of) he turns to the woman, and flashes her a smile.
“Obviously not you.” He points out casually. “I have to admit, I am a bit leery in this part of the neighborhood, but…” He looks around. “It’s the only place it has my favorite beer.”
She’s halfway through mulling over another swig, eyes shifting sideways when he speaks- the lilt of his tone ( the accent notably foreign ) juxtaposed with the white noise of the bar television. “I don’t blame you,” Maria responds lowly, elbow atop the bar, wrist loose while she swirls the amber liquid in the glass.
“Place might have some good imports, but their real strength shines in the whiskey selection.” There’s a pause, she tips the glass toward her, half of a shrug accompanying the motion as if she can’t quite justify continuing the conversation, but does so anyway. “Just saying.”