Something is starting to brush against his-- intuition? Only wankers call it a sixth sense. John has lived a grand long time, and seen a grand load of bollocks throughout. Something isn't wrong, is the thing; it's too right. His pupils dilate the way they do when you look at yourself in the mirror. Yes, she's fit, but that feels wrong somehow.

If he had to make a guess, he'd say she were a succubus. That lot are always a bit odd. He'll have to get closer, see if he can catch a whiff of sulfur. It means he has to put his cig out, so he crushes it under heel before walking over to the counter. Rather than sly, his elbows collapse, folded, onto the faux-mahogany like they fell out of a lorry. One may get the sense that the only thing keeping him upright is momentum.

"No gin? This is gin weather, can't you tell?" He gestures to the gloomy world out the window.