(no subject)
=LG= Carry Nation's - Los Gatos - California
A modest green awning shadows heavy double doors of dark wood flanked by large picture windows. The main area is long and narrow with the glossy black bar running nearly the full length of the room. Finding a stool there on a busy night requires both luck and skill. The bartenders are friendly, the selection vast, and the prices reasonable, all ensuring significant crowds. High cafe tables alternate with low booths on the opposite wall. Quirky framed prints by local artists hang on the red brick wall above. There is a vintage jukebox in back, and a white hallway leads down a set of stairs to clean bathrooms. Plaques on the back wall honors those who have bought rounds for the entire house.
It is Thursday night, and not overly busy, though there are pockets of people here and there that look as though they may be considering becoming crowds. The auburn-haired woman occupying the small booth by the juke box is not a part of one of these pockets, though she watches them through lowered lashes, one corner of her mouth quirked up in vague amusement. Her clothing is casual, crisp jeans and a geometric-printed t-shirt under a leather jacket that is well cared for but still bears the hint of road scuff. This can, perhaps, be attributed to the vehicle that likely goes along with the jewel-blue helmet set on the bench beside her. Perri nurses a beer, fingertips drumming lightly on the side of the glass, the rhythm borrowed from the jukebox's current song. It does not, all told, really seem to be an agitated sort of drumming. Possibly she just likes the song.
Similarly unpocketed: an Aly, scooting away from the bar with something cheerful and bright in hand. Under her own well-worn (road-worn, for similar reasons) leather jacket is a bright splash of color, a goldenrod-yellow t-shirt screenprinted with the letters Op and a pair of hybiscus flowers over the left breast. There's a button-down beneath it, collar and tails visible (black and grey pinstriped, thin), and her jeans are worn-in but bear, in the light, just a hint of sparkle. Bright green eyes made shades golder by the shirt she wears scan the bar, and her long (long, long) braids swing as she turns her head. The ebb and flow of people sets her migratory pattern close to Perri's booth.
Perri leans back against the wall of the booth, head canting slightly as her roaming gaze lights on the wandering Alyssa. That faint, amused quirk draws a little deeper, a little broader, until it becomes a full smile, amiable and a little amused. She lifts the beer bottle in a vague gesture of greeting, and raises her voice to ask above the low murmur of the not-quite-crowd, "Need a seat?" Her accent is a muted thing, hard to place - rooted in Southern Ontario, flavoured with hints of here and there and everywhere.
The shine of Aly's smile as her attention is caught, then held by Perri's invitation is just shades off of brilliant, and her, "I'd love one, thanks," utterly genuine. She seats herself with an economy of motion, the sweep of her free hand around the back of her neck to hook her braids, then pull them over her shoulder, practiced and reflexive. Her own accent is slightly muddled as well: desert southwest flavored by New York, and beginning to be seasoned slightly by her time in California. "Alyssa Carter," she gives once she's settled, switching drink from right hand to left so she can offer to shake hands, "thanks again."
"Perri Kinnon," Perri replies. She reaches over to shake Alyssa's offered hand, grip firm but not overlong. Her hands are callused, nails close-clipped. She settles back again, regarding the younger woman with mild, not-unfriendly curiousity. "And you're welcome. Not a local, are you?"
There is, perhaps, a tiny spark of nerdish glee in Aly's eyes when Perri gives her name, but whatever reference it's sparked in the pachinko machine of the younger brunette's mind is bitten back. Her handshake is perhaps not so firm, her hands not so calloused, but there is an exuberence conveyed even in this simple greeting. "No," she says as she takes back her hand, folds it into a loose cradle around the glass of her drink, "not particularly! Born a state over," is paired with an un-folding of the cradled hands so she can jerk a thumb in a general 'east'-ish direction, "and spent a few years in New York 'fore I made it out here." Her origin story thus paraphrased, she cheerily chirps back, "But you're not local, /either/."
"New York, huh?" Perri wonders, eyebrows sweeping upward in a manner that suggests she wouldn't mind hearing the story - but isn't going to ask, in case it might be considered prying. "And you're right. I'm from Toronto," which is true, "and Wisconsin," which isn't, particularly, unless she's inclined to claim the general origin of one branch of her family for her own.
Alyssa is either versed in eyebrow or is used to the implied question: it's easy enough for her to explain, "My dad got transferred, and the whole family went with," even if it pegs her moving-to-NY time as still young enough to having been living with her parents. "'Cept my sister, who was already in college-- I finished high school out there, and then moved out here a few years after." She scrunches her nose, ducks her head slightly as she realizes she's rambling without letting her new companion talk, and grins over with a, "Toronto, huh? That's-- pretty far. How d'you like it here?"
"Been farther," Perri admits, her smile skewing just a little crooked. She takes a swallow of her beer, and considers Alyssa over the tilt of the bottle. "Sounds like you have a few miles under your belt too, though. And it's not bad - pretty friendly, so far."
There is the bright light of interest in Aly's eyes at that /farther/, although she doesn't push -- they have, after all, known each other only minutes. "A few," she admits (she agrees), "but they seem to suit me, so far." She waits a beat, a not-quite deliberate beat, then adds, with another crinkle of her nose, "California likes people," and lifts her glass to sip, then notes, as she lowers it, "been my experience, anyway!"
"This part seems to," Perri agrees. "Maybe it's making up for the close-mouthed and cranky states." She pulls a face, expression shifting dour and hard. It doesn't last long - it shatters on a laugh, in fact. She shakes her head, and lifts her free hand to flick a stray curl from her eyes.
Alyssa can't seem to help it: Perri's shattering laugh draws one from her in answer, bright and merry. "Oh, that was a perfect cranky-states face," she declares it, and tries to school her features into one of her own. It doesn't quite work: she's fighting too hard against recurring giggles.
"Good to know I have a future in impressions," Perri replies. Her grin threatens to break into another laugh as she watches Alyssa's attempt to muster an impression of her own. "You," she decides, "make a much better mascot for a sunny state."
Alyssa's impression fails spectacularly under the weight of a bright and sunny smile, its light genuine as it touches her eyes and crinkles the bridge of her nose. "Well," she declares, just a little bit (merrily) cheeky, "Arizona, California--" These are accompanied by a lift of a hand, which is then flipped over back and forth, back and forth. "--and I spent Christmas in Miami. I think any of 'em could take their pick."
"Miami, huh?" Perri gives Alyssa another curious look - that had not, after all, been one of the earlier-listed states. "Got a boyfriend over there?" she wonders, mostly idle, just a little assessing. "Or was the siren song of the Atlantic and warm water just a little too much to resist."
Alyssa dismisses this with another flip and a wiggle of her fingers, before she drops her hand back down. "Boy," comes as point the first, "friend," as point the second, "but not boyfriend," on another bright, ringing laugh. (There will probably be a phone call as a result of this, later.) "Although the second -- not terribly off base, either. I managed to get myself a week off, and-- pshew," this last, with hand gestures miming taking off like a shot.
"Good for you," Perri decides, grin broadening a little. "Everyone needs a bit of adventure in their lives. Me, I spent the holiday down around Mexico." Her eyes glitter, brightly amused, and she takes another drink. "What is it you do?"
"I like a little bit of adventure," Alyssa admits, with pinched-together fingers (and another scrunchface) to demonstrate a /little/. "I've been to Mexico," she admits, "but only the bordery touristy parts, cause of living so close." Perri's question gets another laugh, and she reaches into an inside jacket pocket to pull a business card -- if one slightly worse for the wear -- out, to pass over across the table. "Carter's Confections and Creamery," she informs, while it says so -- in cheery, curlicue'd font -- on the card, along with 'Alyssa Carter' and 'proprietor.' Important words.
Perri plucks the card up between two fingers to give it a once-over. "Oh," she says, halfway teasing and halfway impressed. "An entrepreneur, are you? How's it working out?" She pauses, laughs. "Well. Good enough for you to visit your boy-not-boyfriend in Miami, obviously."
"A litte bit of one," Aly says, with that same pinch-together of her fingers -- though this one comes on a laugh. "It's doing okay. I mean-- yeah, good enough I could. I've been out here," her head tips slightly, the light in her eyes pixy-bright as she thinks, "just about two years now? Startin' to get, I dunno, settled. /Established/. It's kind of nice."
"Settled," Perri repeats. She wrinkles her nose in distaste that is not, given her still-bright eyes and lingering grin, entirely genuine. "God forbid. I am /happy/ to leave all the settling to other people." She pats the helmet behind her fondly, as though it's a stand in for - the road, travel, something.
"Want to know a secret?" Alyssa asks, brightly conspiratorial as she leans forward toward her boothmate, "I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it, either." She settles back, and lifts her glass to sip (she's kind of ignoring it for the sake of conversation.) "But-- I meet a lot of people, this way. And I /like/ meeting people, and-- it's nice! When it's not whomg terrifing, like, holy crap is this my life?"
"A little healthy panic just lets you know you're still alive," Perri replies, though her bearing and demeanor suggest that she is not really all that familiar with panic at all. "There a lot of new people through here? Doesn't really seem like a huge transit hub."
"Good to know," Aly merrily marches along, with a quick, bright grin and a wiggle of her fingers. "Guess that's one worry taken care of: totally still alive? Totally still alive, check." There is something -- just a little something, there and then gone in her expression -- that might be wariness, but she is still all smiles as she says, "Oh, there's some. Los Gatos itself may not be, but we're /right/ by San Jose, and San Francisco, and Oakland-- I mean, San Jose State's like, /right/ there."
"It is," Perri agrees. She takes another sip of her beer, eyebrows lifting just a little in mild, muted curiousity as she catches that flicker. "Los Gatos seems smaller than it is, though." She grins, broad and just a little lopsided. "Must be all the cats covering half of everywhere."
Aly isn't terribly good at lying with her face: she catches the lifted eyebrows, and takes a sip of her drink rather than squirming away from it (squirming under it) directly. She matches lopsided smile with lopsided smile though, and hers goes just a little bit wry. "/Cats/. You wouldn't think they'd take the name quite so /literally/-- but that's what you get with the kitsch niche, I guess."
Perri tsks and shakes her head. "Tragic, really. They get any more, the buildings might start collapsing under the weight." She tips her bottle vaguely in the direction of Alyssa's drink and wonders, "Can I get you a refill when you're done there? In return for playing a bit of virtual tour guide."
Alyssa's answer to collapsing buildings is a merry-bright smile that doesn't -quite- meet her eyes, not this time -- but her face is transitionally inclined, so it's genuine enough when she shakes her head and lets her expression fall into something slightly apologetic. "I /would/," she explains, and taps her nails (clear-polished, today, with just a bit of sparkle-shimmer) against her glass, "but this is it for me, tonight. I have to ride back," is further clarification, as she leans just slightly so she can tip a hand at Perri's helmet. "/But/," she declares, face lighting up again, "you can always stop by -- and who knows, maybe next time we run into each other /not/ during business hours--"
Perri is a little better at lying with her face - the return of that quick-sharp curiousity is not obvious, this time. Her eyes gleam, and she grins and dips her head in a nod, more approving than disappointed. "Maybe, maybe," she replies. And then, with the genuine enthusiasm of a person more than marginally fond of the machines, "What do you ride?" And that topic should, at least, hold them 'til their drinks are done and it is time to hit the road.
Truer words never spoken.