(Untitled)

[silverageflash]

Barry is seating away from the crowds. It's been rough, this past week, trying to deal with his departure, with Sara's feelings about it, with a Bar that he feels still needs him (even though it can do fine without him). He's eating macaroni and cheese for lunch, a sure sign he wants - needs - comfort food

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[jackdriscoll]

Nearby sits a writer chewing thoughtfully on an apple while staring at a notepad. A pencil is also being tapped on the tabletop. In the heat of composition Jack tends to forget that pencil tapping is annoying.

[silverageflash]

"Good afternoon," Barry says, figuring this will interrupt the pencil tapping.

[jackdriscoll]

Which it does.

"Afternoon," he replies, examining the unfamiliar man. "I don't believe I've met you. My name is Jack Driscoll."

[silverageflash]

"Barry Allen." He extends his hand. "Are you new here?" Ah, the irony that even now he can find new people to talk to.

[jackdriscoll]

Which he shakes. "I've been here almost a week."

[silverageflash]

"Then welcome. I'm here over a year. And soon to leave, I'm afraid. But this is a good place." Barry smiles a little sadly. "When and where are you from?"

[jackdriscoll]

He frowns and tilts his head at Barry's comment on leaving. "New York, 1933. Why're you leaving, if I may ask?"

[silverageflash]

"Really? That's a very interesting time period. I have a couple of friends who are from then. Or rather, lived through it a long time ago, from my perspective - mid-1990s.

"As for why I'm leaving..." He pauses. It's no secret, but how much to tell a stranger "...let's just say that I died before I arrived and now the last journey is waiting." The sadness comes back, a little.

[jackdriscoll]

He nods slowly, remembering his conversation with Antigone a few days ago. "Then I wish you well on your final journey."

[ ooc: going to duck out for a shower; brb. ]

[silverageflash]

"Thanks." Barry means it. Any well wishing is welcome.

"So, tell me about New York in 1933. That must be some time to live there, with the Depression and Prohibition."

[jackdriscoll]

"It's a very somber time," he says, recalling his trip with Satine. "Especially for the artists. For everyone, really."

[silverageflash]

"I can't say I know much about the arts. My friends did use to tell me how harsh it could be. But most of them, strangely enough, had money even then. One was an heir to a muntions fortune. Hated it.

"Are you an artist?" Why else would Jack mention art first, after all?

[jackdriscoll]

"I'm a writer. One of the lucky few who live off of old money."

[silverageflash]

"Ah. Just like my friends.

"What do you write?" Maybe Jack is like the other great writers of time, and Barry has read his works but forgetten the na,em not being a lit major.

[jackdriscoll]

"I write plays, mostly."

[silverageflash]

"Ah. Any ever produced on Broadway?" Not that Barry is likely to know anything from that time aside from the works of O'Neill and Wilder, and those just barely. He is from the Midwest, and mainly knows musicals and Neil Simon.