Matt
8/11/2008
Natalie is hot and kind of sweaty and, despite the wonders judo is meant to work, significantly stressed. It kind of shows in her expression as she shoulders her way out of class and lingers as she shoulders her way into the Life Cafe, where she demands something caffienated and iced along with something very sweet (cheesecake, raspberry syrup) and settles at a table all her own.
Ah, Judo. It inspires balance, poise, calm, focus, asskicking, and, above all, -hunger-. Thus, showered but not yet bereft of the fetching grey sweats and navy FDNY t-shirt worn when not in his gi, Matt Kessler has found himself hunting for a table at the Life Cafe, as a prelude to a sandwich, or possibly two. Around nests of chairs he roves, eyes searching for openings like a wolf pack scanning a bison herd for weaklings, or a cabbie trying to find an opening in traffic. He does -not- find a table all his own, arriving after not just Natalie, but also a herd of artists, and thus where he is to be found is standing in line to order the sandwiches without a table, voice loud enough to carry, and his back looming over the crowd near Natalie.
Natalie glances up at the looming, and for a moment she pauses in the consumption of her sugary treats, frowning at the familiar expanse of FDNY back without comment. Her fork lingers in the air. Stabby.
Matt's back is wounded! Spectrally! The rest of Matt is not informed of this, and thus spotting Natalie doesn't happen until his sandwich order is placed, and with a number in hand he's resumed his roving the cafffeinated savannahs. "Oh," is his greeting as he pauses before her table. "Hi." A mildly awkward pause and stare around the room later, he asks "If I can't find some place else, mind if I join?"
Natalie stares at Matt for a moment and then sighs reluctantly, leaning back and shoving at the leg of the chair opposite her with her foot under the table. It scoots back with a scraping screech as Natalie waves an allowing hand toward it.
"Oh yeah," Matt confirms, with a sucking at one knuckle to remove a trace of BLT sauce . "When I sulk, I -sulk-, man. You don't do something like that half-way." But the Question prompts a truly thoughtful expression, and a response slowed from being flippant. "Yes and no," he admits.
Natalie raises her brows, clearly surprised, and her fork gestures 'continue' as she spears another bite.
"Career, yeah," Matt answers, shuffling to slouch just a little in his seat, and get all the more comfortable thereby. "I mean, L-T is the rank I want. Just enough to have responsibility with it," (Because the whole 'running into buildings and saving lives' on its own isn't enough.) "But not so high that I gotta worry about a desk job and politics yet. Personal... well, that's the question mark, isn't it?"
Natalie snorts audibly, and her glance down at her cheesecake covers an unpleasant twist of her lips. "Don't think you want to go there with me," she points out /far/ too lightly.
"Probably not," Matt agrees. "Although that wasn't really the bit I was thinking of, specifically."
"Oh, well, glad that's not a question mark," Natalie mumbles into her food.
"Oh, it is, just not one I'm sharing with -you-," Matt assures, with a soft snort. "Seeing as how I'm not a -total- jackass. I was thinking more about my last girlfriend. How things'd be different if she were still alive."
Natalie glances upward, brows raised. "That doesn't sound like a guy who's sure," she points out, more than a little bitchily.
"I meant it -is- one," Matt points out, with a bit of a dogmatic tone at the bitch.
"So?" Natalie replies, the word more curious encouragement than snark. Her fork waves again - elaborate!
Matt's answer at first is to finally eat some of his french fries, with a shift of his shoulders that says he's perhaps not -entirely- comfortable answering. His eyes are for the potato products as he answers all the same. "So, if she hadn't died, I figure I would've proposed to her by now. You've met her, in a sense."
"What?" Natalie says, her face drawn tight in surprise before memory reaches back and recognition dawns. "/Oh/. Oh. Shit-- that's-- that's right. I-- um." Failing to find anything helpful or supportive or otherwise interesting to say, she slurps a drink and then ventures carefully, "I guess it was serious, then? How long--?"
"Seven months." The answer is paired with an odd, wistful smile. "So... really not all that long. But you know, when you've got a good thing going. Even if it was rough near the end-- but that was all outside stuff. Not us."
"Oh-- no. Sorry. I mean, how long has she been-- um." Deciding mid-way through that perhaps this question is inappropriate, Natalie flushes a bit and changes the train of thought to note, "Seven months isn't that long. Everything could have fallen apart three months later, you know. Or six."
"Mmm," says Matt, with a shrug of a shoulder. "Maybe. But if it hadn't, I bet I would've. I mean, I'm still kinda hung up now, although that's not something I share with the department shrink," he admits, with a flash of renewed humour. "Or, frankly, with much of anyone. So shit if I know why you get to hear it."
"What, you haven't told your current saint of a girlfriend that you're still pining after your dead ex?" Natalie wonders, her voice dry and edged with something intensely unpleasant.
"She knows," Matt says briefly. "She's still there."
"Wow," Natalie says, and her tone is even enough that it's not quite clear what that single word means.
"Mm?" Now it is Matt's turn to twirl something (A french fry.) in encouragement.
Natalie simply shakes her head, gaze dipped back to the last bits of her cheesecake, and says, "Well. Happy birthday."
"Thanks," says Matt, with a crooked smile indeed. "So. What was -your- crappy week cause?" he wonders, turnabout being fair play.
Natalie looks hesitant, and for a moment she avoids any reply with the wonder of iced drinks.
Matt is content to wait on an answer. Either that, or he's hungry. More fries vanish.
"Writing my dissertation," Natalie finally offers up, by way of not-an-answer at all.
"Figure you'll get it done in time?" Matt wonders, not wise in the ways of Questions Not To Ask Grad Students.
Natalie shrugs absently and then gives Matt a brief, wry smile. "Before the world ends? Aiming for it."
"Good plan," Matt awards. "Beats -my- goals for meaningful, at least."
"I dunno," Natalie says abruptly, fixing her gaze on Matt across the table with a bluntly honest gaze. "What you do is a pretty big deal."
"Oh, -that'll- probably go on after the world ends, in one way or another," Matt reflects. "I mean, assuming I don't get my head smashed in by a space rock."
"Whereas theoretical math..." Natalie points out wryly.
"Could you give me and my band of survivalists calculations on the probability of zombie attacks?" wonders Matt, with sudden deadpan gravity.
"Zero. We don't have zombies," Natalie answers evenly. "We have mutants."
"Oh, -now- we just have the mutants," Matt counters, interlacing his fingers and planting an elbow to either side of his decimated sandwich. "But how can we be sure that the impact of any number of meteors won't seed the atmosphere with some alien virus?"
Natalie answers with a faint smile, but it's a touch weak, and entirely lacking in a returned joke. Instead, she simply replies, "I guess."
"Although speaking of meteors, I gotta go get ready for an extra shift tonight," Matt admits, snarfling up a few more fries before he explains himself. "Perseid meteor shower peaks tonight, and the cap's predicting people being panicky as a result... assuming anyone can see anything in the middle of Manhattan."
"Oh," Natalie says faintly. "Great."
"Just be off the streets before it gets full dark," is Matt's suggestion, with real weariness appearing on his face as he offers it.
"Shit," Natalie says, and then scoots her chair back, gathering up her cup. "Yeah. Okay. Um. Thanks."
"See you next week," bids Matt, with a wave. He lingers. The fries, after all, won't eat themselves.
"Sure." Natalie does not. She's gone in a jiffy of leaving.
Natalie is hot and kind of sweaty and, despite the wonders judo is meant to work, significantly stressed. It kind of shows in her expression as she shoulders her way out of class and lingers as she shoulders her way into the Life Cafe, where she demands something caffienated and iced along with something very sweet (cheesecake, raspberry syrup) and settles at a table all her own.
Ah, Judo. It inspires balance, poise, calm, focus, asskicking, and, above all, -hunger-. Thus, showered but not yet bereft of the fetching grey sweats and navy FDNY t-shirt worn when not in his gi, Matt Kessler has found himself hunting for a table at the Life Cafe, as a prelude to a sandwich, or possibly two. Around nests of chairs he roves, eyes searching for openings like a wolf pack scanning a bison herd for weaklings, or a cabbie trying to find an opening in traffic. He does -not- find a table all his own, arriving after not just Natalie, but also a herd of artists, and thus where he is to be found is standing in line to order the sandwiches without a table, voice loud enough to carry, and his back looming over the crowd near Natalie.
Natalie glances up at the looming, and for a moment she pauses in the consumption of her sugary treats, frowning at the familiar expanse of FDNY back without comment. Her fork lingers in the air. Stabby.
Matt's back is wounded! Spectrally! The rest of Matt is not informed of this, and thus spotting Natalie doesn't happen until his sandwich order is placed, and with a number in hand he's resumed his roving the cafffeinated savannahs. "Oh," is his greeting as he pauses before her table. "Hi." A mildly awkward pause and stare around the room later, he asks "If I can't find some place else, mind if I join?"
Natalie stares at Matt for a moment and then sighs reluctantly, leaning back and shoving at the leg of the chair opposite her with her foot under the table. It scoots back with a scraping screech as Natalie waves an allowing hand toward it.
"Oh yeah," Matt confirms, with a sucking at one knuckle to remove a trace of BLT sauce . "When I sulk, I -sulk-, man. You don't do something like that half-way." But the Question prompts a truly thoughtful expression, and a response slowed from being flippant. "Yes and no," he admits.
Natalie raises her brows, clearly surprised, and her fork gestures 'continue' as she spears another bite.
"Career, yeah," Matt answers, shuffling to slouch just a little in his seat, and get all the more comfortable thereby. "I mean, L-T is the rank I want. Just enough to have responsibility with it," (Because the whole 'running into buildings and saving lives' on its own isn't enough.) "But not so high that I gotta worry about a desk job and politics yet. Personal... well, that's the question mark, isn't it?"
Natalie snorts audibly, and her glance down at her cheesecake covers an unpleasant twist of her lips. "Don't think you want to go there with me," she points out /far/ too lightly.
"Probably not," Matt agrees. "Although that wasn't really the bit I was thinking of, specifically."
"Oh, well, glad that's not a question mark," Natalie mumbles into her food.
"Oh, it is, just not one I'm sharing with -you-," Matt assures, with a soft snort. "Seeing as how I'm not a -total- jackass. I was thinking more about my last girlfriend. How things'd be different if she were still alive."
Natalie glances upward, brows raised. "That doesn't sound like a guy who's sure," she points out, more than a little bitchily.
"I meant it -is- one," Matt points out, with a bit of a dogmatic tone at the bitch.
"So?" Natalie replies, the word more curious encouragement than snark. Her fork waves again - elaborate!
Matt's answer at first is to finally eat some of his french fries, with a shift of his shoulders that says he's perhaps not -entirely- comfortable answering. His eyes are for the potato products as he answers all the same. "So, if she hadn't died, I figure I would've proposed to her by now. You've met her, in a sense."
"What?" Natalie says, her face drawn tight in surprise before memory reaches back and recognition dawns. "/Oh/. Oh. Shit-- that's-- that's right. I-- um." Failing to find anything helpful or supportive or otherwise interesting to say, she slurps a drink and then ventures carefully, "I guess it was serious, then? How long--?"
"Seven months." The answer is paired with an odd, wistful smile. "So... really not all that long. But you know, when you've got a good thing going. Even if it was rough near the end-- but that was all outside stuff. Not us."
"Oh-- no. Sorry. I mean, how long has she been-- um." Deciding mid-way through that perhaps this question is inappropriate, Natalie flushes a bit and changes the train of thought to note, "Seven months isn't that long. Everything could have fallen apart three months later, you know. Or six."
"Mmm," says Matt, with a shrug of a shoulder. "Maybe. But if it hadn't, I bet I would've. I mean, I'm still kinda hung up now, although that's not something I share with the department shrink," he admits, with a flash of renewed humour. "Or, frankly, with much of anyone. So shit if I know why you get to hear it."
"What, you haven't told your current saint of a girlfriend that you're still pining after your dead ex?" Natalie wonders, her voice dry and edged with something intensely unpleasant.
"She knows," Matt says briefly. "She's still there."
"Wow," Natalie says, and her tone is even enough that it's not quite clear what that single word means.
"Mm?" Now it is Matt's turn to twirl something (A french fry.) in encouragement.
Natalie simply shakes her head, gaze dipped back to the last bits of her cheesecake, and says, "Well. Happy birthday."
"Thanks," says Matt, with a crooked smile indeed. "So. What was -your- crappy week cause?" he wonders, turnabout being fair play.
Natalie looks hesitant, and for a moment she avoids any reply with the wonder of iced drinks.
Matt is content to wait on an answer. Either that, or he's hungry. More fries vanish.
"Writing my dissertation," Natalie finally offers up, by way of not-an-answer at all.
"Figure you'll get it done in time?" Matt wonders, not wise in the ways of Questions Not To Ask Grad Students.
Natalie shrugs absently and then gives Matt a brief, wry smile. "Before the world ends? Aiming for it."
"Good plan," Matt awards. "Beats -my- goals for meaningful, at least."
"I dunno," Natalie says abruptly, fixing her gaze on Matt across the table with a bluntly honest gaze. "What you do is a pretty big deal."
"Oh, -that'll- probably go on after the world ends, in one way or another," Matt reflects. "I mean, assuming I don't get my head smashed in by a space rock."
"Whereas theoretical math..." Natalie points out wryly.
"Could you give me and my band of survivalists calculations on the probability of zombie attacks?" wonders Matt, with sudden deadpan gravity.
"Zero. We don't have zombies," Natalie answers evenly. "We have mutants."
"Oh, -now- we just have the mutants," Matt counters, interlacing his fingers and planting an elbow to either side of his decimated sandwich. "But how can we be sure that the impact of any number of meteors won't seed the atmosphere with some alien virus?"
Natalie answers with a faint smile, but it's a touch weak, and entirely lacking in a returned joke. Instead, she simply replies, "I guess."
"Although speaking of meteors, I gotta go get ready for an extra shift tonight," Matt admits, snarfling up a few more fries before he explains himself. "Perseid meteor shower peaks tonight, and the cap's predicting people being panicky as a result... assuming anyone can see anything in the middle of Manhattan."
"Oh," Natalie says faintly. "Great."
"Just be off the streets before it gets full dark," is Matt's suggestion, with real weariness appearing on his face as he offers it.
"Shit," Natalie says, and then scoots her chair back, gathering up her cup. "Yeah. Okay. Um. Thanks."
"See you next week," bids Matt, with a wave. He lingers. The fries, after all, won't eat themselves.
"Sure." Natalie does not. She's gone in a jiffy of leaving.