cruel holland bechamel

Cold wet icy rain. A real downpour. A flood. A deluge.

"Quit it, Hopey," said Desormais Chandrelle, a singer.
"I'm sorry Dezie, I just get distracted by such awful weather," Said Hopewell Hudson, a bartender.
"It's not like you're out in it, I love the rain when I'm indoors where it's warm" said Desormais, giving a meaningful nod of her auburn head towards the monumentally sized victorian marble fireplace roaring at the far end of the piano bar's dining room.
"I know, it's just sympathy shivers, that's all," said Hopey, looking glum.
"Let me buy you a drink, cheer up," said Desormais.
"Ah, thanks but you know I'm not allowed to drink when I'm working," said Hopey.
"And you never-"
"I never, but thanks for offering,"
Desormais regarded Hopey's grin and surrendered to it.
"All right Hopey, at least I got a smile out of you," said Desormais.
Hopey's grin widened into a smile. "You always cheer me up Dezie."
"Even singing my sad old songs?" said Desormais.
"Especially when you sing your sad old songs" said Hopey, tilting her face forward conspiratorialy.
Desormais smiled, "We'll have that drink some other time, I've got to get back to work." She glided off the barstool and walked back to the small stage where the pianist was just about finished his smoke. She drew his cigarette from his lips and dragged down hard to the filter and crushed the remains. Then, she sang.

Desormais Chandrelle sang tears and frustrations and lonely nights. She sang heartaches and sorrows and empty rooms. She sang rusted memories and dead friendships. She sang cold wet icy rain. A real downpour. A flood. A deluge.