It isn't exactly a place Elvis spends a lot of time. Granted, the same could be said for most of the more highly populated areas on the island, but then, he would be content to pass his days up in the hut with Anabelle, not needing to worry about or deal with anyone else. That just isn't an option here. Stopping in the Hub is, really, a spur of the moment decision on his way out of the Compound, and a halfhearted one at that, his steps slow, a little aimless, and led easily off track by a blur of motion in his peripheral vision. He doesn't know the guy who's sitting there erasing, and it doesn't much matter to him what the reason for it is, but he figures he might as well be curious. He knows the feeling, after all, has sat and scratched out words and entire paragraphs after writing at his typewriter, the one downside to not doing everything by hand.
"How come you're erasing it?" he asks in lieu of greeting, standing at the side of the table, close enough to see the remnants of pencil lines. The other sketches look good; he's sure this one must have been, too.
The laugh Elvis lets out is short, mostly humorless, but not unkind. The response might have been a brusque one, and seemingly unnecessary, given the other sketches lying around - I didn't like it would have been good enough - but then, it isn't like there's no truth to it. He'd have probably said the same thing if it were him. "Alright," he says, and shrugs. "These are good."
It's only with Anabelle in mind that Elvis refrains from pointing out that he's in the middle of a bar, pretty much the most obvious place for people to be around. He still thinks it, of course, but he knows what she would say if she were around, and, well, the point is that he's trying. It's at least a little easier to not be an ass these days.
"Don't worry about it," he says instead, shrugging. "I bet it'd be easy to get caught up in doing these."
"I usually work from home, I just wanted something different," he admitted with a shrug. Anyway, he wasn't working, technically. The initial work was done, now he just needed to decide which of the projects were worth pursuing. If any.
"Have you been here long? I don't think we've met."
"We haven't," Elvis confirms, shaking his head. He knows mostly because he hasn't met many people at all, of his own volition. There've been a few, of course, greetings exchanged in passing, usually while getting food, but for the most part, he's content not to do anything differently than he did back in Texas. "I've only been here a couple of weeks. Name's Elvis Moreau."
"Tom Hansen," he said, sitting back in his seat and admitting with a cough of laughter, "It's been about a year for me, now, but I still don't know that many people."
"Jesus, a whole year," Elvis says, letting out a low whistle. He's met people who've been here longer - or, at least, he knows Eden, who's been here for - but it still seems like a daunting amount of time. Not as bad as he once might have found the idea, but strange, surely. "And how's that been workin' out for you?"
"How come you're erasing it?" he asks in lieu of greeting, standing at the side of the table, close enough to see the remnants of pencil lines. The other sketches look good; he's sure this one must have been, too.
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Mackenzie had called him a pretentious dick on more than one occasion, and he'd probably been right. He'd always been kind of prickly with strangers.
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He'd gotten so used to working out of the house, half of his sketches were never seen by anyone but him, and maybe Paul, if he was lucky.
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"Don't worry about it," he says instead, shrugging. "I bet it'd be easy to get caught up in doing these."
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"Have you been here long? I don't think we've met."
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