Ilad, Kitty
Ilad's laundry basket is sitting on top of one of the washers where he has abandoned it. The man himself has not disappeared far, as he waits for his load to finish so he can swap it over to the dryer; instead, he is seated in the lounge area with his ordinary too-straight posture, dressed in a grey T-shirt of faded Hebrew print and dark jeans. He is watching a baseball game, or rather, the television is on and the baseball game is playing, and Ilad's abstracted gaze is angled vaguely in its direction, but he is not really paying any attention to what is going on in Oakland tonight.
There's a soft grunt from Kitty as she backs into the laundry room from the adjoining wall, dragging with her a laundry hamper that just barely makes it past the all too solid steel of a washing machine before it gets abandoned with a thud. With a frustrated breath, she kicks the whicker hamper once before rubbing her hands against worn jeans and straightening. It isn't until she notices the basket in front of her that she turns around, gaze dropping from the television to Ilad. "Oh, hey there!"
Ilad is slow to stir from whatever inward-turned contemplation holds him rapt; though he does flick his dark eyes away from television screen and blink a few times, marking Kitty's progress with fractional attention, he does not actually seem to bring her into appropriate focus until she addresses him. He answers her with the tip of his head in an inclination, and a slow unfolding of his limbs as he draws to his feet, away from the couch cushions into which he has sunk. "Hello," he says, lifting a hand in an open-palmed gesture.
An answering smile is quick on Kitty's lips, bright and easy as she takes in Ilad with a flick of hazel eyes that double take on his shirt. Her eyes crinkle slightly as she tries to make out the words, only giving up after a while to ask lightly, "What does your shirt say?"
It is small wonder that she can't pick them out. There aren't any vowels, and the characters have faded from their initial black calligraphy to a more muted dark grey, partway to fading into the speckled grey of the rest of the cotton. Ilad glances down at himself with a slight uplift of his eyebrows, checking to see what shirt he's wearing. "Maccabiah Ramat Gan," he says. He's a lot of help, isn't he?
"Uhm." Not so helpful, as Kitty stares with a slightly blank look back at Ilad. There's a soft laugh on her words as she questions, "And what does that mean?"
"Ah," Ilad answers, with the cock of an eyebrow and a warm, dry shade of humor reflected both in his dark eyes and in his accented voice, "well. The Maccabiah is this Jewish sporting competition and Ramat Gan is the ... borough ... city in Tel Aviv where they take place." He goes on further, "I bought the shirt the last time I was in Tel Aviv."
"I have never heard of Maccabiah. But, I guess... My family has been in America for a while," Kitty offers with a wince at her own stupidity, chewing on her lower lip as she ends lamely. "Did you play?"
"There are some American Jews who compete in the games, but Israel -- ah, you know. We are a tough people. Hardy." Ilad's smile twitches back across his mouth, wry, and fading quickly. "I did not play myself, though, no. I was never one for organized sports." He glances at the television and the game he has been ignoring, with faint rue in his expression.
Smiling in return, Kitty confides with her own glance to the television, "I'm not, either, truthfully. Big shock, I know." She turns back to her hamper and the washers, grabbing clothes out to throw them into the nearest free machine. They go unsorted, men's white button down shirts thrown in with bright colored shirts. "Do you miss it? Israel?"
The flicker of Ilad's dark eyes catches laundry-blending, but the only result of his observation is the slight elevation of his dark eyebrows. His expression sets, and he spends a moment in extended silence, failing to answer the innocent question with lips pressed close and tight in a thin line. Finally, he makes a noncommittal noise. "Mm." Accent thickening in its drape over simple words, he says, "It does not matter."
"I think it does. But, you probably don't want to talk about it with someone you barely know," Kitty says lightly, her smile flashing towards Ilad reassuringly. Her eyes rest for a brief second on him, openly studying him before she turns back to tossing clothes into washers. She runs out of room in the first.
Ilad is a creature of stillness, notably hard to read beyond the tension reflected in the set of spine and reflection; his body is held almost perfectly still and straight, reflective of iron-hard self-control. "I do not wish to discuss it with anybody," he corrects gently, the desert's dryness a heavy weight upon his voice. "There is little purpose."
Nose wrinkling up in a gesture, Kitty nods to the correction though she goes on to question almost without thinking, "Little purpose to talking about it or how you feel?" Tossing the last of the clothing into one of the machines, she pivots again with a soft smile. "Sorry, I don't mean to butt in. I have this problem where I--Well, sorry. We can talk about something else?"
Ilad exhales in a low snort, derision quiet. He fails to answer the question; instead, he murmurs, "Indeed," with a faint rumble buried in the paired syllables. He glances about the laundry room as though searching for inspiration as to a distinct topic, and dredges up, "How long have you worked here?"
"Over a year, total. I took some time off for a bit to go see Europe and clear my head," Kitty answers with a twitch of a frown at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes drop to measure laundry detergent carefully into machines before turning them on. "It's a lot different than what I was used to. How about you? Not how long--Are you fitting in or whatever?"
Eyebrows arching, Ilad does not immediately respond. He glances at his laundry machine, marking the slow progress of his wash, and then returns the flick of his gaze to Kitty with a faint twitch of his mouth at one corner. "More or less," he says. Low breath puffed past his nose, he expands, "I cannot say that I am especially concerned as to the fit, in any event."
"Oh. Huh." Kitty shifts awkwardly on the balls of her feet as brows furrow at the answer, teeth working at a loose piece of skin on her lower lip. It takes a moment, but she finally bursts out with a "What are you concerned about, then? I mean, most people want to fit in where they work." Her shoulder raises in a slight shrug as she examines Ilad thoughtfully.
Ilad lifts a shoulder in a partial shrug, partial echo of her gesture. "It has not made itself of concern," he says. "So I have not been especially concerned about it."
"Oh. Okay then." A silence falls after her words, Kitty's brows still furrowed together as thoughts work furiously, slightly distant in expression. "If you ever want...," she starts hesitantly before pushing out a sigh. "If you ever want someone to be concerned with or something. Or just hang out. I'm really good at hanging out."
"Really?" Ilad slants a narrow-eyed look of amused surprise in Kitty's direction. "My thanks," he intones, mildly, with his eyebrows arched once more.
"I know, the offer is really appealing. Just, it's there if you want it," Kitty responds with a bit of self-deprecating humor resting dryly on her words despite the easy smile that meets Ilad's arched brows.
"The offer was ... unexpected," Ilad returns. His smile is very slight, the ghost of a warmer expression turning up his mouth at the corners as he folds his hands loosely behind his back. He stands there, in a kind of modified parade rest. "I do not know that I am as accomplished."
Kitty's head tilts slightly at that, her own brows rising too in question as she looks at Ilad. "At hanging out? It's really not that hard, honestly. It helps if you have something to do, like a movie or bowling," she explains with a hint of a grin.
"Bowling," Ilad repeats, shaping the syllables with a kind of concentrated humor in their precision. "I see."
"Or a movie," Kitty repeats too, a hand almost nervously pushing a curl behind her ear. "Or food, or air hockey, or anything, really."
Ilad cocks an eyebrow at her, humor lighting his dark eyes. "As I said," he says, inclining his head toward her across the laundry room, "my thanks. Perhaps ... sometime."
A smile tugs brightly at Kitty's lips as she nods quickly, repeating his word this time lightly, "Sometime." With that, she flicks one last glance at her washing machines before moving to retreat to the door proper. "I'll see you later, Ilad."
"Later," Ilad answers, agreement mild. He watches her go for a moment, then turns on his heel to prowl back toward the sofa and fold himself down onto it. Drawing his knuckles along the curve of his jaw, he slants his glance back toward the television, and with the shadow of a smile on his lips, shakes his head. You'd think he would have something more constructive to do with his time than ignore a baseball game but apparently not.
Laundry day!