washing my hands of the many years untold

For several days now, Ishiah hasn't been able to rid himself of the tension in his body. The center of it nestles itself directly between his shoulder blades, a constant reminder of everything that he's done his best to keep his eye on as of late, and of everything that remains firmly out of his control. Darrow is, in many ways, no better or worse than the Manhattan that he left.

But it is small and contained, and that makes any outburst twice as deadly for those it could potentially affect.

The thought doesn't stop him from continuing to work at Semele's. In fact, recently he's been pulling longer hours at the restaurant, finding some minor solace in keeping his hands busy in some way that proves helpful to others. Customers come to Semele's for that safe haven, and save for a couple of near exceptions, no one's left the place any worse off than when they entered it. It's a record that Ishiah plans to help the restaurant keep.

He's acting as the bartender today, serving specialty drinks during happy hour and keeping busy. Only when a lull takes place in the middle of the evening does Ishiah really look up and scan through the customers, a soft smile appearing on his face as he spots someone he's been hoping would stop by.

"Hello, Tara," he says, walking over to her side of the bar as he polishes a glass. "I hope I find you well."