__ You Madly
WHO: Thera y Raivis
WHEN: Monday afternoon, Nov. 8th
WHERE: 2 pm lunch hour
WHAT: The ornaments look pretty but they're pulling down the branches on the tree...
He didn't want to wonder if it was a blunder, he didn't want to worry about if he'd keep it together till he cried and he hadn't wanted to jump in unless the moment took him. He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to talk about it but at one fifty five exactly Raivis took his lunch break with a nervous farewell to Ion and a curious aversion of gazes with his boss, descending the stairs with an overwhelming foreboding sense of doom looming overhead. It was his inherent sense of polite professionalism that compelled him to nervously migrate toward a restaurant down the street he had never been to and a women therein he had never heard the name of at a time he had never before been bold enough to request off.
If his peculiar lunch hour (given with startling easy acquiescent by Ivan) did not beget any questioning glances from his co-workers, the little black vest and tie over one of his nicely starched polos certainly did.
Presumably, he was off to a meal with his husband.
Fiddling with the rolled up cuffs by his elbows as he gave his name in a falsely confident tone to the maitre' d, Raivis fervently wished that had been true. The man nodded, told him 'Miss Minoa is waiting at table eigh-' then a rush of panic blanked it out as Raivis pondered again: What am I doing? What the hell am I doing?
Paradigm shifts apparently did strange things to a formerly semi-reclusive mind.
"Good afternoon, ma'am."
Raivis slipped down into the chair beneath the hawkish stare of a woman too pretty to be human. He flushed faintly, adjusting his tie as he thread his fingers together in his lap and- breathed. Just... breathed.
"You...wished to see me?"
He sat across the table wishing he could run.
WHEN: Monday afternoon, Nov. 8th
WHERE: 2 pm lunch hour
WHAT: The ornaments look pretty but they're pulling down the branches on the tree...
He didn't want to wonder if it was a blunder, he didn't want to worry about if he'd keep it together till he cried and he hadn't wanted to jump in unless the moment took him. He didn't want to think about it, didn't want to talk about it but at one fifty five exactly Raivis took his lunch break with a nervous farewell to Ion and a curious aversion of gazes with his boss, descending the stairs with an overwhelming foreboding sense of doom looming overhead. It was his inherent sense of polite professionalism that compelled him to nervously migrate toward a restaurant down the street he had never been to and a women therein he had never heard the name of at a time he had never before been bold enough to request off.
If his peculiar lunch hour (given with startling easy acquiescent by Ivan) did not beget any questioning glances from his co-workers, the little black vest and tie over one of his nicely starched polos certainly did.
Presumably, he was off to a meal with his husband.
Fiddling with the rolled up cuffs by his elbows as he gave his name in a falsely confident tone to the maitre' d, Raivis fervently wished that had been true. The man nodded, told him 'Miss Minoa is waiting at table eigh-' then a rush of panic blanked it out as Raivis pondered again: What am I doing? What the hell am I doing?
Paradigm shifts apparently did strange things to a formerly semi-reclusive mind.
"Good afternoon, ma'am."
Raivis slipped down into the chair beneath the hawkish stare of a woman too pretty to be human. He flushed faintly, adjusting his tie as he thread his fingers together in his lap and- breathed. Just... breathed.
"You...wished to see me?"
He sat across the table wishing he could run.