“Who you waiting on? Miss Jessica?” He had brought that redheaded writer Chastain to that party they met at. She seemed far too nice for Oscar, bubbly and energetic whereas Oscar glowered beside her.
He makes a face now as if both she and himself have caught him a lie.
“No? Oh boy, who’s the lucky girl? What’s she look like?” She feels like one of those lionesses who play with their gazelles before they eat them. That’s a thing, right?
“I don’t - you know what, never mind.”
“You don’t know? Lemme guess: Tinder?”
“No. Nothing like that. Not that it’s any of your business. I appreciate the whiskey, but you can leave.”
“Come on.” She doesn’t know why she wants to stay, but she does. “No one wants to drink alone. Not even you, dear depressive patron of the arts.”
He lifts the glass of whiskey she had ordered him in salute and downs it.
“So what are you going to do after? if you close?”
Oscar scowls. “If you offer me a job, so help me, I will grab you by the neck and strangle you.”
She laughs and he almost smiles. “Intriguing as that threat may be, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She orders them two more whiskeys; he requests two shots of tequila on top of that.
“Put it on Daddy Warbucks’s tab here,” he says, pointing at her. She rolls her eyes.
“We’re in the same business, man. Cut the shit.”
“We most certainly are not.” He throws back his whiskey and places the glass upside down on the bar.
“It’s retail. You can romanticize it as much as you want, but when you get down to it, that’s all it is: retail. We sell shit. People buy our shit. We stay open.”
“That’s your problem. Right there.”
“My problem? From where I’m sitting business is booming. I don’t think I’m the one with the problem.”
“You’ve got a problem all right. Cancer of the soul.”
He says it so dramatically. She laughs hard and then, to her surprise, so does he, the sound low and genuine. He has a good laugh. Hearing it now, she realizes it’s how she always imagined tambourineman152@gmail.com’s laugh would sound, each lol or haha he typed to her.
He leans in closer and he calls her the Angel of Death, but he says it like he not only hopes she really is but like that might be something wonderful or if not wonderful than appealing. She laughs again, she orders them more shots.
The conversation weaves and twists from there, until they are all but yelling at each other about her soft-spot for Virginia Woolf (“I wrote my thesis on her, I know her, I love her”) and his for Cormac McCarthy or how she thinks Kerouac can suck it and he feels the same about Atwood and how if they have to hear one more person ask them what book they should read after Gone Girl they will straight-up have to gone girl themselves until it dawns on her how late it is.
She sits up a little straighter, as if there’s a way to affect prim and proper after the sum total of booze they’ve consumed together.
“I should - probably - head back,” she says, the words halting, the natural rhythm their conversation had adopted abandoned into some awkward abyss.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I’ll - walk you. Outside.”
And he does. The night is cool, crisp fall air, and hadn’t he written to her a week ago telling her how much he loved this time of year? He had cataloged each and every thing he loved about it - the leaves and the way the breeze is that much sharper, the colors too, how the only time he ever truly feels at home is in autumn.
“This is my favorite season, too,” she hears herself say. The confusion only marks his face for a beat because then she is kissing him and he is kissing her back.
He kisses the same way he argues: forcibly, sure, passionate. He tastes hot and male, his stubble scratching at her pale face, and she likes that, she likes all of that. She holds tight to the lapel of his jacket and opens her mouth to him. She kisses him like she knows him and he kisses her the same.
When she pulls back from him his eyes are dark and glassy. He looks like he has seen an entire new world and that makes her want to laugh. Everything about him makes her want to laugh. Someday she should tell him what a funny man he is.
Omg I love this. There is nothing more endlessly charming to me than picturing a scruffy and grumpy Oscar in flannel, reading Pynchon behind the till and sniping at his customers Bernard Black-style with Kiki swans around in pencil skirts and scarves. Your dialogue is so funny and suits both of their natural voices so well (Cancer of the soul!) I pretty much had Llewyn Oscar and Bachelorette Kiki in my head the whole way through and it was so perfect. Especially the kiss! Kisses and Girls references and their fab faces. Thank you so much!
Hahaha thank you, dude!!! Your prompt was absolutely the greatest and I now desperately need this to be an actual movie I can obsessively and repeatedly watch!
I pretty much had Llewyn Oscar and Bachelorette Kiki in my head the whole way through and it was so perfect.
This was exactly what I was going for, and I'm so glad it worked!
“Who you waiting on? Miss Jessica?” He had brought that redheaded writer Chastain to that party they met at. She seemed far too nice for Oscar, bubbly and energetic whereas Oscar glowered beside her.
He makes a face now as if both she and himself have caught him a lie.
“No? Oh boy, who’s the lucky girl? What’s she look like?” She feels like one of those lionesses who play with their gazelles before they eat them. That’s a thing, right?
“I don’t - you know what, never mind.”
“You don’t know? Lemme guess: Tinder?”
“No. Nothing like that. Not that it’s any of your business. I appreciate the whiskey, but you can leave.”
“Come on.” She doesn’t know why she wants to stay, but she does. “No one wants to drink alone. Not even you, dear depressive patron of the arts.”
He lifts the glass of whiskey she had ordered him in salute and downs it.
“So what are you going to do after? if you close?”
Oscar scowls. “If you offer me a job, so help me, I will grab you by the neck and strangle you.”
She laughs and he almost smiles. “Intriguing as that threat may be, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
She orders them two more whiskeys; he requests two shots of tequila on top of that.
“Put it on Daddy Warbucks’s tab here,” he says, pointing at her. She rolls her eyes.
“We’re in the same business, man. Cut the shit.”
“We most certainly are not.” He throws back his whiskey and places the glass upside down on the bar.
“It’s retail. You can romanticize it as much as you want, but when you get down to it, that’s all it is: retail. We sell shit. People buy our shit. We stay open.”
“That’s your problem. Right there.”
“My problem? From where I’m sitting business is booming. I don’t think I’m the one with the problem.”
“You’ve got a problem all right. Cancer of the soul.”
He says it so dramatically. She laughs hard and then, to her surprise, so does he, the sound low and genuine. He has a good laugh. Hearing it now, she realizes it’s how she always imagined tambourineman152@gmail.com’s laugh would sound, each lol or haha he typed to her.
He leans in closer and he calls her the Angel of Death, but he says it like he not only hopes she really is but like that might be something wonderful or if not wonderful than appealing. She laughs again, she orders them more shots.
The conversation weaves and twists from there, until they are all but yelling at each other about her soft-spot for Virginia Woolf (“I wrote my thesis on her, I know her, I love her”) and his for Cormac McCarthy or how she thinks Kerouac can suck it and he feels the same about Atwood and how if they have to hear one more person ask them what book they should read after Gone Girl they will straight-up have to gone girl themselves until it dawns on her how late it is.
She sits up a little straighter, as if there’s a way to affect prim and proper after the sum total of booze they’ve consumed together.
“I should - probably - head back,” she says, the words halting, the natural rhythm their conversation had adopted abandoned into some awkward abyss.
“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “I’ll - walk you. Outside.”
And he does. The night is cool, crisp fall air, and hadn’t he written to her a week ago telling her how much he loved this time of year? He had cataloged each and every thing he loved about it - the leaves and the way the breeze is that much sharper, the colors too, how the only time he ever truly feels at home is in autumn.
“This is my favorite season, too,” she hears herself say. The confusion only marks his face for a beat because then she is kissing him and he is kissing her back.
He kisses the same way he argues: forcibly, sure, passionate. He tastes hot and male, his stubble scratching at her pale face, and she likes that, she likes all of that. She holds tight to the lapel of his jacket and opens her mouth to him. She kisses him like she knows him and he kisses her the same.
When she pulls back from him his eyes are dark and glassy. He looks like he has seen an entire new world and that makes her want to laugh. Everything about him makes her want to laugh. Someday she should tell him what a funny man he is.
A cab pulls up the curb.
“Sorry about your date,” she calls to him.
“What?” he says, as if he had forgotten.
fin.
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I pretty much had Llewyn Oscar and Bachelorette Kiki in my head the whole way through and it was so perfect.
This was exactly what I was going for, and I'm so glad it worked!
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