Damon slipped off a pair of sleek, chrome-framed aviators and paused to survey the after-five crowd. He smiled an empty, effectual smile at the bartender and, in the process, won himself the adoration of a group of twenty-something's, women mostly attractive in a small town sort of way.

Ahh, the privileges that local celebrity and animal magnetism did afford.

Out of sheer boredom, he returned their ogling with a civil half-smile and an upturned palm, before an order of his usual staple: a tall glass of Woodford Reserve. He sloshed the alcohol around a few times, as if rinsing his palate, waiting for its sweet after burn, waiting to exacerbate the presence of his cannibal-devil-wingman who usually retired early, in and around Damon's third drink.

He sighed as the bourbon slowly took effect, closing his eyes in momentary solace, before the noise and rush of the Grille returned him to the grim formality of spending another evening in Mystic Falls in the all too simple company of Kentucky bourbon, Jack Daniels and a few one liners. Oh, there were plenty of mice to toy with, had he been so inclined, but no bella regazza to set his throat on fire.

Damon stared at his hands in the hard, orange luminescence. They glared back up at him, shining, resplendent; his exterior perhaps the only resplendent thing about him. And he really did look human tonight, the proxy of a man with too much time on his hands and never enough alcohol. After several more glasses of Woodford, it was becoming abundantly clear to Damon that the privileges of celebrity were as useless to him now as they would have been to Marlon Brando in the Peruvian Andes. Exasperation and disgust were written clear across his temples as a change in shift for the bartending staff resulted in a grossly poured bourbon 'on the rocks.'

Damon slowly curled his index finger in the direction of the woman who had delivered his drink. Without a word, she turned on her heels and quickly strode towards him, a flirtatious smile written on her lips, as though the barkeep was sure she was about to receive a very memorable proposition.

As she approached him, Damon crooked the left side of his mouth up in a trademark grin and beckoned her closer with his hand. When she leaned in, Damon put a finger to his glass.

"When you started your shift...do you recall glancing at the register with my list of orders that specifically called for a tall Woodford Reserve, straight...as in, no ice?"

"I'm sorry...I must have read it wrong. Here, let me just replace that for you..."

As she extended her hand to retrieve the glass, Damon brushed it aside forcefully.

"That won't be necessary. I'm not planning on staying for another round."

Damon deposited a substantial wad of cash and change on the marble bar top. Then he locked eyes with the woman, speaking in tones which only she could hear.

"And count your good fortune I don't intend to dine here. Ample enough gratuity, I think."

His pupils dilated as he said this, a flaming orange ring emerging within the circle of both irises, mesmerizing the woman, drawing her further into his words and throwing a sound proof curtain against the wild din of bar talk, pool cues, and the clattering of silverware on plates.

"If anyone should ask," he continued, "I was happy with the service. I left a robust tip and plan to visit again very soon."

The barkeep nodded mechanically, her eyes still carrying a heavy glaze, as if she had just risen from a very recent and very deep sleep.

Damon artfully turned and made his way for the door, drawing with him the glances of several admirers as he passed. A favourite 80's pop song belted its way out of the restaurant sound system and Damon found himself humming a few familiar chords.

As he exited the Grille, Damon drew in a long breath, more out of habit than necessity. As per usual for Virginia in the spring, the air was thick and sultry, settling in his lungs like the smell of salt and perspiration on skin. He had forgotten how fond he was of Virginia weather, how the heat rose up in waves off the women and men in their multitudes, how the wind blew great gusts of it into his nostrils, tantalizing him with every vein of life.

Tonight being no exception, Damon closed his eyes and let himself be guided by infiltrative scents, as vivid to him as colours. He stood for a long moment like this, seeing past the exhaust fumes, the budding magnolia trees to his right, a flash of pollen here, a strong whiff of Old Spice or White Shoulders there. Finally, a heady scent approached him. He felt it trickle down his throat like a pungent, earthy wine, a little dry, a little sweet. It was masked over by a cool, salty ocean smell, characteristic to the younger, beach-hitting crowds. His lips turned upwards into a smirk, canines slightly extending.

When he opened his eyes he saw her; a startling approximation of his old flame, Katherine Pierce, with her long, lithe figure, and chestnut hair curling into a slight wave. He must have been mistaken, surely...

Damon whipped his head around to take in her retreat. As she ascended several steps towards the Grille's entrance, she flashed her eyes in his direction. The same dark chocolate eyes, the same full, pink lips; surely this wasn't the cruel joke it appeared, but a misapprehension of the truth. It couldn't have been Katherine who approached him, for there was nothing preternatural or out of the ordinary about her. Still, he had to be certain. He had to be absolutely certain that this wasn't some cleverly orchestrated deception.

All at once Damon found himself climbing the stairs to the restaurant entrance, his excitation mounting as he smoothed back his hair in one even stroke, letting a broad and this time, very genuine smile etch its way across his features.