The bar was empty and all the ice had melted when Lorne found a little time for a quiet reverie. Just him and his piano, and a martini so dry it could skin your tongue. And a coaster; he'd just had his baby French polished and he didn't want marks.
The doors flung open, which was annoying, because locksmiths weren't cheap in LA. A petite but ferocious figure stood silhouetted in the doorway.
"Nobody uses backlighting like Roxy Wasserman," Lorne said, half to himself, as his fingers drifted over the keys.
"I need a drink." Roxy stalked to the bar, and rapped on it with her knuckles. Her dress - tight, red, shiny - was in tatters, and there were scorch marks on the leather.
"Tough night on the runway, Rox?" Lorne slipped behind the bar and put a glass on the bar.
Roxy made a beckoning gesture, and Lorne poured vodka into the glass until it was brimming. She threw the contents down her throat and slammed the glass back on the bar. Her nails were torn and caked with something sulphurous. "Anna Wintour snubbed me at the Prada show." She reached out and grabbed Lorne's chin, and looked deep into his eyes. "You don't snub Roxy Wasserman at the runway show."
Lorne eased himself back gently. "Oh, honey, I wouldn't dare. Not for all the shoes in Prada."
"She thinks she's so elevated." Roxy threw back another shot, and held her glass out for more. "She thinks I don't remember what hell hole she crawled out of."
Lorne topped the glass up again. "You know, I've always wondered exactly what hell hole she did crawl out of."
Roxy curled her lip as she downed her third shot. "I'm just saying: Narnia got off lightly. One hundred years of Wintour, and never Christmas. She'd do it again, but fur is so last century."
Lorne shivered, and poured himself a shot, too. "Well, here's to fashion holding back the apocalypse."
"Yet again," said Roxy, and clinked their glasses.