The cute Russian artist
I need to go shopping for my nieces and nephews more often. How is the school up here managing to find all these guys? Bozhe moi!
8/8/2005
Logfile from Leah.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It's getting to be late summer, and this fine August afternoon finds one Professor Rasputin at one of the city's numerous bookstores, perusing a series of books. A couple science books are tucked under Pete's arm, along with an oversized sketchbook, and he is now thumbing through something whose cover claims to be a how-to-draw book. He shakes his head as he sets it aside and pulls the next one from the shelf.
Leah is crouched in front of the end-cap of that aisle, studying a different kind of how-to book: anime and manga, oh, my! In plain T-shirt and jeans, with her hair brushed back into a short, coarse bronze crown, she's just a hunch of a woman, flipping wide-eyed through patient instruction on eyes and breasts and legs. Huh.
Well, this one looks a bit more promising. Enough so, that Pete adds it to the stack, and snags a Drawing for Dummies as well, which if nothing else should prove amusing. Now to find a seat to look them over. He glances over the foreward as he heads out of the aisle, where chairs must surely be. And lo, and behold, he rounds the corner more sharply than he ought, running right into that crouching tiger. It's amazing how four flying books can seem like a multitude when there's a stumbling Russian involved falling to his knees.
"Jesus--!" sputters out of Leah as she sprawls onto her behind -- her book flies up to join his four, whee! -- and then catches herself in a fast crab-walk to scoot out of the way of any further falling men. Panting, she stares up at him, her eyes gone white-rimmed leaf-pale. Then they narrow with native irritation. "Watch where you're goin', buddy, huh? You and those big feet of yours." She considers them while scrambling to recover her book, then shifts her gaze back up to his face and allows, "And the big rest of you. Bull in a china shop, man."
Piotr quickly pushes himself up, regaining his feet but by no means his composition. "I am so very, very sorry," he says, hastily gathering his own scattered books. "You are very right, I was being distracted. You are not hurt, no?"
Leah agrees, "No," with more mollification in her voice's low-slung vowels and prickly consonants. Her expression is more rueful than annoyed, too. "Teach me not to hog up this spot, anyway." Book in hand, she climbs to her feet, brushes off her jeans on the way up. "--Distracted, huh?" She cocks up a look. "By what?"
"I was reading," Pete responds, pointing toward the book on the top of the pile. "I should have waited until I found a place to sit. Again, I am very sorry," he adds, reddened face still not quite recovered. "You are sure you are okay?"
"I accept your apology, sir," Leah says very properly and soberly. "Really, it's cool, don't worry about it. If you'd squashed me flat, well, that would've been a different story. I could've sued your ass, say. Well, assuming you're worth a lot of money." And she brightens an appropriately mercenary look behind her thin grin. "Are you?"
Okay, now dually assured, Pete might /begin/ to start feeling less guilty. With it being gone sometime next week. He offers an apologetic smile. "No, I am sorry that I am not. But I could give you the fourteen dollars in my wallet in..." he falters just a moment, trying to recall the word, "restitution, if that would be good. Or offer to buy your book for you."
Some guilt dulls Leah's whetted cheer, and she pats his forearm with the casual familiarity of a true city-dweller. "Hey, seriously. I was joking, all right?" Reminded, she tucks her book behind her back, safely out of sight, and rounds her eyes up at him a little sadly. "Good thing, too. I think if I tried, I could've fleeced you for all you've got, huh?"
Piotr shrugs, offering a quick grin. "As I said, that would have not been so much. But I am glad that you are fine. I am Peter, by the way," he adds hastily remembering manners and brushing a hand off before offering it to her.
"Leah," the woman offers firmly in return, and shakes his hand nice and proper. "And where is your keeper, Peter? Because, boy, I sure hope someone is chaperoning you before you offer up your money to the next person you bump into." Her voice rides low, amused, and her eyes are all pale, simmering innocence to take any sting away.
"My pleasure, Leah," Peter nods. "And I /did/ crash into you," he explains. "Although I should be glad that you are not one of those, how do you say, oh, con artists. But I suppose you might say that my 'keeper' would be my little sister Illyana, as we are looking out for each other."
Leah points out, "I /could/ be a con artist. They look like anyone. Could /be/ anyone. I could even now be reeling you into my cunning trap. But I'm not. I'm just here buying a book for my nephew." It flaps against the backs of her thighs in reminder. Hi. She cranes a look around. "Is she here? That's a pretty name. Russian, right, the pair of you?"
"No, Illyana has decided to stay behind today, as my book search was not so much of interest," Peter answers. "And da, Russian. How did you ever tell this?" he asks, a grin belying the question. Nope, no accent here whatsoever.
Leah laughs a little, awarding him the point, and then waves at the aisle and the chairs and table beyond it. "You still shopping, or you want to stand around here and block it up for the rest of the store? I don't mind taking a load off, myself," and she grimaces, shifting her weight foot to foot. "A lot of walking to get here from the train. This city can be hell on pedestrians."
"That is where I was headed myself. And yes, I have spent much time walking, particularly in college. They always seem to schedule classes the farthest across campus that they can," Peter nods, guesturing toward the chairs. "After you," he allows
"Thanks. Are you in school yourself?" Leah cants him a sidelong study on their way to the chairs. "Or -- teaching? With those books. I guess it's that time of year again."
"I have been in school until this year," Peter explains, settling down into one of the chairs ergonomically designed for maximum pleasure so you will enjoy your perusal of the books and certainly buy a copy before leaving. "But this year, I will be teaching a seventh and eighth grade class. So yes, these books are some preparations, as September is coming very quickly." And that all said, he's suddenly realized how much he's talking about himself. "What is it that you do?"
Leah stretches out a leg and crosses the other one over it, balancing calf on shin. "Well," she replies lightly, "nothing so good as all /that,/ I confess. I'm a reporter, or I am whenever I can get the job. I prefer 'journalist,' but it's really all the same and easier to say." Pause. "Not that your English isn't great, Peter. I don't mean to suggest it's not. I don't know any Russian, myself, after all. Well, maybe 'da' and 'nyet,' but that doesn't count." Talking about herself? Noooo problem over here.
"Well, that is two words that you will not need to learn," Peter grins. "But the people who say Russian is difficult to learn have never had to try to learn English. I am very sure of this. But a journalist seems that it could be very interesting as well. What do you write about?"
"Politics, mostly." Leah shrugs her way deeper into the chair; her hand on one of its arms makes a palms-up little gesture, waving away the topic and encompassing polite embarrassment all in one. She smiles back, but it doesn't linger. "Not really the kind of thing you get into with cute guys in a bookstore. /I/ want to hear more about what you're teaching."
Piotr flushes slightly at that. No, certainly can't be talking about him. Cough. "Oh, I am sure that yours would be the more interesting, but I will be teaching a science class for this Junior High. This is the standard course. But I will also teach some art, a drawing class as this elective," he says, nudging the better of the how-to's out into view on the table.
Leah slithers up to sitting to see better. "Drawing, huh?" Her eyes move from the book to his face. (Cute. Ha. Hi.) "Science /and/ art -- talented. And I couldn't save my life with a math equation, but I'm okay with writing. Some people have all the luck," she muses on her way back into the chair's depths. "So, where in the city are you teaching? Public or private school?"
"Private school," Peter answers, completely glossing past the talented part. Modest to a fault. "It is a small school outside of the city--my Alma Mater, if you can use that term for a secondary school. I am very much looking forward to teaching there. But unfortunately, in Westchester county, there are not as large of bookstores to search, so I was here to trip onto you instead," he adds with a grin.
"Westchester," Leah pounces with agreeable delight. "Hey, I live up in Salem Center. Do you teach /there/? With Dr. Grey and -- Professor Summers?" Her voice rides out the hitch before that chosen title, and her reciprocal smile hardly even blinks.
"Oh, you know Xavier's School?" Peter asks, his eyes widening. "Well, yes, then, that is where I will be teaching. It is a small school. But I suppose if you live in the nearby, it would be easy to meet the people there. You know Dr. Grey and Professor Summers?"
Leah agrees, "Made friends with a couple students there before I ever met those two. Alyssa Carter, John Allerdyce -- they still there? I haven't seen them in a while. Poor kids." Her chipper manner does falter a bit at that, but she covers with a wry glance at the man. "Star-crossed lovers, or that's how Aly kinda made it sound, last time I saw her. I don't /know/ Dr. Grey and Professor Summers, anyway, really. Interviewed the one and had coffee with the other." A casual shrug.
"I have not met Alyssa," Peter shakes his head. "I was not around the school much these past months, finishing my own studies, so I have not met some of the newer students. John," he pauses a moment. "John has graduated and decided to go his own way in the world. I have not heard much of him lately. But yes," he adds, a bit more cheerfully, "The teachers are very good, and I will think it an honor to be part of them."
"I have no doubt, Mr. Peter," lofts Leah back at him, warm and fuzzy and neat as a tennis ball. She nudges her foot against his across the space between the chairs. "If you see Aly, you'll tell her you saw me? Get that girl to call me. I hope John didn't completely break her heart. I know it was rough with his parents and all, but . . ."
"I will tell her indeed. She and John were... dating?" Peter asks, trying to put together any of these details. Because of course, you go to the local reporter to find out the scoop about who's seeing who, who's left to become supervillan, who's new students and faculty, all in the house that Xavier built. "She will have your number then, no?"
Leah sighs. "Yeah, I gather they were. Are? No, probably 'were,' if he's gone off in graduation. Is he still in the city?" she hopes. "I was trying to hook him up with an editor friend of mine, to get some of his short stories published. Kid's got talent if he just works at it a bit more." The flirting energy's faded; now she's all pondering and pensive, tapping a restless hand's fingers on the book on her lap. "She does have my number, but I don't want to intrude, you know? Broken little-girl hearts need their space."
"I... don't know as he will be writing much now," Peter says, mind whirling as he wonders what Leah might know, and even given that, what is appropriate to reveal. "He may be around the city, but I think he has gone away. But yes, I will tell this Alyssa that I met you and that you would like to talk to her. Oh, but I have kept you for some time," he says, nodding toward her book. "But it is not every day you stumble over someone who also knows where you work. It is a small Big City."
Leah mutters, "Idiot boy. Take /care/ of yourself. --Oh, hell. Thanks, Peter. I'll maybe just call her myself. It's been long enough by now." She does glance at her watch and then at him, her smile grateful but stretching in a long, slow tease. "It's all right, though I'd better hurry to catch my train. C'mon. You can walk me up front and teach me more Russian, 'case I run into you around town."
Piotr chuckles, pushing himself to his feet as well. "Well, for starters..." he says, switching into a string of Russian as they make their way to the front of the store. "That would be nearly, 'No, no, this book is much too expensive. You can give me a better deal.'"
Leah laughs and loops her arm through his to make the escort all proper. "Okay, once more, and more slowly! 'No, no . . .'"
[Log ends.]
8/8/2005
Logfile from Leah.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
It's getting to be late summer, and this fine August afternoon finds one Professor Rasputin at one of the city's numerous bookstores, perusing a series of books. A couple science books are tucked under Pete's arm, along with an oversized sketchbook, and he is now thumbing through something whose cover claims to be a how-to-draw book. He shakes his head as he sets it aside and pulls the next one from the shelf.
Leah is crouched in front of the end-cap of that aisle, studying a different kind of how-to book: anime and manga, oh, my! In plain T-shirt and jeans, with her hair brushed back into a short, coarse bronze crown, she's just a hunch of a woman, flipping wide-eyed through patient instruction on eyes and breasts and legs. Huh.
Well, this one looks a bit more promising. Enough so, that Pete adds it to the stack, and snags a Drawing for Dummies as well, which if nothing else should prove amusing. Now to find a seat to look them over. He glances over the foreward as he heads out of the aisle, where chairs must surely be. And lo, and behold, he rounds the corner more sharply than he ought, running right into that crouching tiger. It's amazing how four flying books can seem like a multitude when there's a stumbling Russian involved falling to his knees.
"Jesus--!" sputters out of Leah as she sprawls onto her behind -- her book flies up to join his four, whee! -- and then catches herself in a fast crab-walk to scoot out of the way of any further falling men. Panting, she stares up at him, her eyes gone white-rimmed leaf-pale. Then they narrow with native irritation. "Watch where you're goin', buddy, huh? You and those big feet of yours." She considers them while scrambling to recover her book, then shifts her gaze back up to his face and allows, "And the big rest of you. Bull in a china shop, man."
Piotr quickly pushes himself up, regaining his feet but by no means his composition. "I am so very, very sorry," he says, hastily gathering his own scattered books. "You are very right, I was being distracted. You are not hurt, no?"
Leah agrees, "No," with more mollification in her voice's low-slung vowels and prickly consonants. Her expression is more rueful than annoyed, too. "Teach me not to hog up this spot, anyway." Book in hand, she climbs to her feet, brushes off her jeans on the way up. "--Distracted, huh?" She cocks up a look. "By what?"
"I was reading," Pete responds, pointing toward the book on the top of the pile. "I should have waited until I found a place to sit. Again, I am very sorry," he adds, reddened face still not quite recovered. "You are sure you are okay?"
"I accept your apology, sir," Leah says very properly and soberly. "Really, it's cool, don't worry about it. If you'd squashed me flat, well, that would've been a different story. I could've sued your ass, say. Well, assuming you're worth a lot of money." And she brightens an appropriately mercenary look behind her thin grin. "Are you?"
Okay, now dually assured, Pete might /begin/ to start feeling less guilty. With it being gone sometime next week. He offers an apologetic smile. "No, I am sorry that I am not. But I could give you the fourteen dollars in my wallet in..." he falters just a moment, trying to recall the word, "restitution, if that would be good. Or offer to buy your book for you."
Some guilt dulls Leah's whetted cheer, and she pats his forearm with the casual familiarity of a true city-dweller. "Hey, seriously. I was joking, all right?" Reminded, she tucks her book behind her back, safely out of sight, and rounds her eyes up at him a little sadly. "Good thing, too. I think if I tried, I could've fleeced you for all you've got, huh?"
Piotr shrugs, offering a quick grin. "As I said, that would have not been so much. But I am glad that you are fine. I am Peter, by the way," he adds hastily remembering manners and brushing a hand off before offering it to her.
"Leah," the woman offers firmly in return, and shakes his hand nice and proper. "And where is your keeper, Peter? Because, boy, I sure hope someone is chaperoning you before you offer up your money to the next person you bump into." Her voice rides low, amused, and her eyes are all pale, simmering innocence to take any sting away.
"My pleasure, Leah," Peter nods. "And I /did/ crash into you," he explains. "Although I should be glad that you are not one of those, how do you say, oh, con artists. But I suppose you might say that my 'keeper' would be my little sister Illyana, as we are looking out for each other."
Leah points out, "I /could/ be a con artist. They look like anyone. Could /be/ anyone. I could even now be reeling you into my cunning trap. But I'm not. I'm just here buying a book for my nephew." It flaps against the backs of her thighs in reminder. Hi. She cranes a look around. "Is she here? That's a pretty name. Russian, right, the pair of you?"
"No, Illyana has decided to stay behind today, as my book search was not so much of interest," Peter answers. "And da, Russian. How did you ever tell this?" he asks, a grin belying the question. Nope, no accent here whatsoever.
Leah laughs a little, awarding him the point, and then waves at the aisle and the chairs and table beyond it. "You still shopping, or you want to stand around here and block it up for the rest of the store? I don't mind taking a load off, myself," and she grimaces, shifting her weight foot to foot. "A lot of walking to get here from the train. This city can be hell on pedestrians."
"That is where I was headed myself. And yes, I have spent much time walking, particularly in college. They always seem to schedule classes the farthest across campus that they can," Peter nods, guesturing toward the chairs. "After you," he allows
"Thanks. Are you in school yourself?" Leah cants him a sidelong study on their way to the chairs. "Or -- teaching? With those books. I guess it's that time of year again."
"I have been in school until this year," Peter explains, settling down into one of the chairs ergonomically designed for maximum pleasure so you will enjoy your perusal of the books and certainly buy a copy before leaving. "But this year, I will be teaching a seventh and eighth grade class. So yes, these books are some preparations, as September is coming very quickly." And that all said, he's suddenly realized how much he's talking about himself. "What is it that you do?"
Leah stretches out a leg and crosses the other one over it, balancing calf on shin. "Well," she replies lightly, "nothing so good as all /that,/ I confess. I'm a reporter, or I am whenever I can get the job. I prefer 'journalist,' but it's really all the same and easier to say." Pause. "Not that your English isn't great, Peter. I don't mean to suggest it's not. I don't know any Russian, myself, after all. Well, maybe 'da' and 'nyet,' but that doesn't count." Talking about herself? Noooo problem over here.
"Well, that is two words that you will not need to learn," Peter grins. "But the people who say Russian is difficult to learn have never had to try to learn English. I am very sure of this. But a journalist seems that it could be very interesting as well. What do you write about?"
"Politics, mostly." Leah shrugs her way deeper into the chair; her hand on one of its arms makes a palms-up little gesture, waving away the topic and encompassing polite embarrassment all in one. She smiles back, but it doesn't linger. "Not really the kind of thing you get into with cute guys in a bookstore. /I/ want to hear more about what you're teaching."
Piotr flushes slightly at that. No, certainly can't be talking about him. Cough. "Oh, I am sure that yours would be the more interesting, but I will be teaching a science class for this Junior High. This is the standard course. But I will also teach some art, a drawing class as this elective," he says, nudging the better of the how-to's out into view on the table.
Leah slithers up to sitting to see better. "Drawing, huh?" Her eyes move from the book to his face. (Cute. Ha. Hi.) "Science /and/ art -- talented. And I couldn't save my life with a math equation, but I'm okay with writing. Some people have all the luck," she muses on her way back into the chair's depths. "So, where in the city are you teaching? Public or private school?"
"Private school," Peter answers, completely glossing past the talented part. Modest to a fault. "It is a small school outside of the city--my Alma Mater, if you can use that term for a secondary school. I am very much looking forward to teaching there. But unfortunately, in Westchester county, there are not as large of bookstores to search, so I was here to trip onto you instead," he adds with a grin.
"Westchester," Leah pounces with agreeable delight. "Hey, I live up in Salem Center. Do you teach /there/? With Dr. Grey and -- Professor Summers?" Her voice rides out the hitch before that chosen title, and her reciprocal smile hardly even blinks.
"Oh, you know Xavier's School?" Peter asks, his eyes widening. "Well, yes, then, that is where I will be teaching. It is a small school. But I suppose if you live in the nearby, it would be easy to meet the people there. You know Dr. Grey and Professor Summers?"
Leah agrees, "Made friends with a couple students there before I ever met those two. Alyssa Carter, John Allerdyce -- they still there? I haven't seen them in a while. Poor kids." Her chipper manner does falter a bit at that, but she covers with a wry glance at the man. "Star-crossed lovers, or that's how Aly kinda made it sound, last time I saw her. I don't /know/ Dr. Grey and Professor Summers, anyway, really. Interviewed the one and had coffee with the other." A casual shrug.
"I have not met Alyssa," Peter shakes his head. "I was not around the school much these past months, finishing my own studies, so I have not met some of the newer students. John," he pauses a moment. "John has graduated and decided to go his own way in the world. I have not heard much of him lately. But yes," he adds, a bit more cheerfully, "The teachers are very good, and I will think it an honor to be part of them."
"I have no doubt, Mr. Peter," lofts Leah back at him, warm and fuzzy and neat as a tennis ball. She nudges her foot against his across the space between the chairs. "If you see Aly, you'll tell her you saw me? Get that girl to call me. I hope John didn't completely break her heart. I know it was rough with his parents and all, but . . ."
"I will tell her indeed. She and John were... dating?" Peter asks, trying to put together any of these details. Because of course, you go to the local reporter to find out the scoop about who's seeing who, who's left to become supervillan, who's new students and faculty, all in the house that Xavier built. "She will have your number then, no?"
Leah sighs. "Yeah, I gather they were. Are? No, probably 'were,' if he's gone off in graduation. Is he still in the city?" she hopes. "I was trying to hook him up with an editor friend of mine, to get some of his short stories published. Kid's got talent if he just works at it a bit more." The flirting energy's faded; now she's all pondering and pensive, tapping a restless hand's fingers on the book on her lap. "She does have my number, but I don't want to intrude, you know? Broken little-girl hearts need their space."
"I... don't know as he will be writing much now," Peter says, mind whirling as he wonders what Leah might know, and even given that, what is appropriate to reveal. "He may be around the city, but I think he has gone away. But yes, I will tell this Alyssa that I met you and that you would like to talk to her. Oh, but I have kept you for some time," he says, nodding toward her book. "But it is not every day you stumble over someone who also knows where you work. It is a small Big City."
Leah mutters, "Idiot boy. Take /care/ of yourself. --Oh, hell. Thanks, Peter. I'll maybe just call her myself. It's been long enough by now." She does glance at her watch and then at him, her smile grateful but stretching in a long, slow tease. "It's all right, though I'd better hurry to catch my train. C'mon. You can walk me up front and teach me more Russian, 'case I run into you around town."
Piotr chuckles, pushing himself to his feet as well. "Well, for starters..." he says, switching into a string of Russian as they make their way to the front of the store. "That would be nearly, 'No, no, this book is much too expensive. You can give me a better deal.'"
Leah laughs and loops her arm through his to make the escort all proper. "Okay, once more, and more slowly! 'No, no . . .'"
[Log ends.]