7-22 Pietro
Step one to getting along with people: try not to insult them on the way to complimenting them. Seriously, Nat.
Ah, well. Y'know. Whatever. /Writing/. He was a bit odd anyway. Really-- you know, I'm totally just making things up. I know it. Some people are just fast readers. Some people play racquetball. Some people see a falling cup and grab it before it falls to the floor and that is no big deal.
Still. It'd be kinda nice to know.
7/22/2006
Natalie, as per usual, has a book open in front of her, propped with the edge of a plate while she picks her way through a chicken salad sandwich. Somewhat less usual is the nature of the book - paperback, small, with well-worn corners and a creased cover. She's seated at a small table near the front of the bustling coffee shop, shamelessly lingering even as tables fill and chairs are snatched away to seat more people than they were meant to.
Pietro orders a cup of coffee, (black, no really, just black coffe,) and pays in quarters, nickles, and two pennies. He has a book of his own in his off-hand, thumb tucked between its pages. It is a book of short stories: 2003. He takes his coffee in hand and wanders to take a seat. He finds near seats all taken, and stands a moment, flummoxed.
Were Natalie a nice person, she'd offer up the seat opposite her. Were she a rude person, she'd drop her bag there so no one else could edge into her space. And the moment, however, she's an unobservant person, so absorbed in book and chicken salad that-- ah. The awkward shift of an elbow sends her half-empty frozen mocha flying from table to floor. Natalie drops her sandwich swiftly in order to scrabble after it as it rolls across the floor, kept from any /dire/ spills by the tightly sealed lid.
Pietro catches the mocha before it can hit the floor. He pauses a moment, and then straightens. More slowly, he replaces it on Natalie's table, and nods to her. "Careful."
Natalie barely has time to sweep her head out toward the mocha before it's caught. Brown eyes widen as she sweeps her gaze up at him, and she hesitates for a moment before she finds a smile and reaches for her glass. "Um. Thanks. I mean, really, thanks." She sweeps a handful of dark hair behind her shoulder and her smile widens a touch. "Good reflexes," she notes.
"Racquetball," Pietro says inanely, flexing his arm. He is distracted, not looking at Natalie, but rather at the others. No one else really seems to have given the catch much notice; more importantly, the last empty table is claimed by a spreading group of students.
"I like racquetball," Natalie replies. Inanely. Her gaze sweeps across the shop after him and then she blinks belated recognition. "Oh, hey. You can share my table if you want. I was just reading."
Pietro tips his hand down, complete with short stories, and taps the back of the one chair left to Natalie's table. He looks around again, and then considers the door. "Eh." He hesitates, and then sits down. He looks at Natalie, meeting her eyes on a brief nod. "Pietro."
Natalie's eyes flash toward the door as Pietro's do, and a small frown meets his hesitation, although she doesn't comment on it. "Natalie," she offers.
Pietro glances at Natalie, glances longer at her book, and then nods again as he opens his own, flattening the pages.
Natalie does not return immediately to her book. She spends a moment, instead, considering Pietro as he reads. Her fingers curl around her cup thoughtfully.
Pietro glances up over the pages at Natalie. He lifts an eyebrow at her.
Natalie smiles, slightly apologetic, although not in the least embarrassed, and spreads her fingers out over her own book as she drops her gaze.
Pietro's turn: he studies Natalie a moment, and then lowers his gaze back to the pages of his book. He speed-reads to an only slightly excessive degree.
It is enough. Natalie's eyes lift again as she suggests mildly, "You read very quickly."
"I've read it before," Pietro says in off-hand fashion, excuse passed on in an easy manner.
"Oh? Would you recommend it?"
Pietro lowers the book down to the table between them, opening to the table of contents. "This one," he says, turning the book so she can see where he points. He makes his decisions quickly, and firmly. "And this one. This one does some interesting things with perspective, and this one here is very experimental regarding formatting." He all but writes 'Teacher' on his forehead.
Natalie's eyes flash back up to Pietro, and there's obvious surprise in her expression as she watches him. "Huh," she answers. "Formatting, huh? Is that-- uh. Is that good?"
"It is neither good nor bad, I think, but simply different. As a matter of preference, however, I prefer more traditionally told tales. I think they focus on the important elements of the story, although differences in formatting can, I will admit, help highlight certain facets," Pietro lectures.
"You," Natalie supposes with a dry smile. "Are a lit teacher, aren't you?"
Pietro looks only a bit sheepish; more, he looks wry. "Writing."
Natalie's smile widens a touch, settling into an easy grin. "Yeah? Where?"
Pietro gestures vaguely. "At Emerson. It is a private college in the Queens."
"Yeah, I know where it is," Natalie assures him, and there's a touch more respect in her gaze as she considers him anew. "English prof, huh? So what, you play racquetball with the guys on the tenure committee?"
"One of the math professors, actually, and one of the school's chaplains," Pietro says. "They play against one of the biology professors and I."
"Quite the quad," Natalie answers with a grin. "Damn. So brushing up my raquetball isn't really gonna help in the job market? Are you telling me my career counselor /lied/?"
Pietro blinks. "Were you interested in being a professor?" he asks, focusing on her with a bit more interest. "Uhm, it can't hurt."
"Was, am, will be," Natalie replies chipperly. "I'm in the math program at Columbia." She tips her head toward his book, a half nod. "Y'know. No writing, but they're still big on tenure and racquetball. Some of 'em, anyway."
"Math at Columbia? You probably aren't too concerned with impressing Emerson's board, then," Pietro says, light regarding the weight of their schools. "Math, huh? I never really had the head for it. Must not run in the family, since neither does my sister."
"We'll see where I am when I've got the shiny paper, huh?" Natalie dismisses with ease. "I've never had much of a head for real literature, so I guess we're even, huh? How'd you get into that?"
"By--" Pietro considers the question, actually taking a moment. "By writing, really, and by reading. I don't really enjoy radio, or television, or movies, but reading I can do at my own pace, in my own time. The same with writing. Why do you study math?"
"At your own pace? What, movies these days move too fast for you?" Natalie teases before she leans back and scoops up her cup for a slurp. "Mm. Math. I dunno. It just works for me. I like it when things make sense, y'know? It's not messy, but it's not /easy/. And damn, there's nothing quite as satisfying as getting something to /work/."
Pietro smiles, very slightly, with a faint glimmer of arrogance to pale eyes. "Too slow, of course. Why not be an engineer?"
"Too slow." Natalie's smile matches Pietro's and then widens beyond at that note of arrogance. She shrugs. "Why be an engineer?"
"You make things work!" The logic makes sense to Pietro.
"There are more things in heaven and earth," Natalie quips on a grin. Her fingers tap, fidgeting, against the table in front of her. "Engineering's just a tiny part of the field. Why teach writing?"
"Because I am good at it." Arrogant.
"Then why not write?" Natalie pushes with brows that arch dark above her eyes. Pointed.
Pietro snorts. "I do. But one must also pay the bills."
Natalie's expression is easy and open as she leans back and draws twitching hands into her lap. "Gotta love those. What do you write? I mean, you teach, so there's publishing or perishing, but do you do fiction too?"
"Fiction," Pietro says, nodding, "and creative essays. But short stories, not novels. I find the short story a more powerful tool."
"Really?" Natalie queries, polite (interested!) "How come?"
Pietro starts to explain, and then stops. He smiles at Natalie, something of a tease to his voice: teacher to student, mind. "You could always sit in on one of my classes, you know. I usually get paid for this."
"In all my free time," Natalie teases, and lifts a finger to jab it at him in indication. "See, now, I always knew you humanities types were crazy. You're teaching this summer?"
Pietro blinks. "Don't mathematicians?"
"Don't we what?"
"Teach in the summer," Pietro says, impatient.
"Only the ones who get the short straw," Natalie replies. "Lotta grad students teaching basic courses for incoming frosh."
"Oh, right. Columbia." Pietro scuffs a hand through silver hair. "We hard-up assistant professors teach the core things, the graduate requirements, over the summer."
"Really?" Natalie's gaze sparks surprise at this as she picks at the remains of her chicken salad. "Damn. That's gotta suck. I mean, on both ends, huh? As if the school year isn't long /enough/."
"I only teach half a load of courses during the year, so it is not so bad. I supplement my income with writing," Pietro says, "or from another perspective, ground my writing income with teaching."
"So," Natalie inquires, head tipping in an understanding nod. "If I found myself overwhelmed with freetime and wanted to come see what all this literature mumbo jumbo is all about, who would I be looking for?" A pause to pop a bite of sandwhich into her mouth and she adds, "What're you teaching this summeR?"
"Pietro," was already said, so he repeats it and then adds, "Maximoff." There is, markedly, no 'Doctor' to his name. "I teach the introductory writing classes, as well as the fiction writing workshop."
"Huh." Natalie considers this for a moment while she chews and then asks, "You're not from New York?"
"Originally, I am from Eastern Europe," he says, mildly evasive. Explaining gets to be a pain. "You?"
"Ohio," Natalie replies dryly, and scoops up her cup to twist the straw. It squeaks unpleasantly against the plastic of the lid. "Bit of an adjustment on both parts. Been here long?" A moment's pause and then she notes, kindly, "Your English is very good."
Pietro regards Natalie with discomfort, and a distant amusement. "Thank you," he says, slightly patronizing. "I've been here for a /few/ years."
The tips of Natalie's ears flood red, although any further sign of embarrassment is neatly hidden in the drop of her head for another drink. When she raises it, she's all assurances and understandings. "Oh, sure, right, you probably did your PhD work here, huh?"
Pietro smiles. "No."
Furious color continues to rise and Natalie answers, "Oh."
Pietro smiles wider.
Natalie falls silent and picks at her sandwhich.
Pietro turns the page.
Natalie gnaws momentarily at her lower lip and then drops her gaze steadfastly to her own book.
Pietro takes his empty coffee cup, drunk somewhere between words, and stands to leave. "Nice meeting you. Good luck with that math stuff!"
Natalie's gaze startles up and she nods, bobbing with another smile. "Yeah. Hey, you too, with the summer classes and stuff."
Pietro waggles a few fingers in a wave, and leaves.
Ah, well. Y'know. Whatever. /Writing/. He was a bit odd anyway. Really-- you know, I'm totally just making things up. I know it. Some people are just fast readers. Some people play racquetball. Some people see a falling cup and grab it before it falls to the floor and that is no big deal.
Still. It'd be kinda nice to know.
7/22/2006
Natalie, as per usual, has a book open in front of her, propped with the edge of a plate while she picks her way through a chicken salad sandwich. Somewhat less usual is the nature of the book - paperback, small, with well-worn corners and a creased cover. She's seated at a small table near the front of the bustling coffee shop, shamelessly lingering even as tables fill and chairs are snatched away to seat more people than they were meant to.
Pietro orders a cup of coffee, (black, no really, just black coffe,) and pays in quarters, nickles, and two pennies. He has a book of his own in his off-hand, thumb tucked between its pages. It is a book of short stories: 2003. He takes his coffee in hand and wanders to take a seat. He finds near seats all taken, and stands a moment, flummoxed.
Were Natalie a nice person, she'd offer up the seat opposite her. Were she a rude person, she'd drop her bag there so no one else could edge into her space. And the moment, however, she's an unobservant person, so absorbed in book and chicken salad that-- ah. The awkward shift of an elbow sends her half-empty frozen mocha flying from table to floor. Natalie drops her sandwich swiftly in order to scrabble after it as it rolls across the floor, kept from any /dire/ spills by the tightly sealed lid.
Pietro catches the mocha before it can hit the floor. He pauses a moment, and then straightens. More slowly, he replaces it on Natalie's table, and nods to her. "Careful."
Natalie barely has time to sweep her head out toward the mocha before it's caught. Brown eyes widen as she sweeps her gaze up at him, and she hesitates for a moment before she finds a smile and reaches for her glass. "Um. Thanks. I mean, really, thanks." She sweeps a handful of dark hair behind her shoulder and her smile widens a touch. "Good reflexes," she notes.
"Racquetball," Pietro says inanely, flexing his arm. He is distracted, not looking at Natalie, but rather at the others. No one else really seems to have given the catch much notice; more importantly, the last empty table is claimed by a spreading group of students.
"I like racquetball," Natalie replies. Inanely. Her gaze sweeps across the shop after him and then she blinks belated recognition. "Oh, hey. You can share my table if you want. I was just reading."
Pietro tips his hand down, complete with short stories, and taps the back of the one chair left to Natalie's table. He looks around again, and then considers the door. "Eh." He hesitates, and then sits down. He looks at Natalie, meeting her eyes on a brief nod. "Pietro."
Natalie's eyes flash toward the door as Pietro's do, and a small frown meets his hesitation, although she doesn't comment on it. "Natalie," she offers.
Pietro glances at Natalie, glances longer at her book, and then nods again as he opens his own, flattening the pages.
Natalie does not return immediately to her book. She spends a moment, instead, considering Pietro as he reads. Her fingers curl around her cup thoughtfully.
Pietro glances up over the pages at Natalie. He lifts an eyebrow at her.
Natalie smiles, slightly apologetic, although not in the least embarrassed, and spreads her fingers out over her own book as she drops her gaze.
Pietro's turn: he studies Natalie a moment, and then lowers his gaze back to the pages of his book. He speed-reads to an only slightly excessive degree.
It is enough. Natalie's eyes lift again as she suggests mildly, "You read very quickly."
"I've read it before," Pietro says in off-hand fashion, excuse passed on in an easy manner.
"Oh? Would you recommend it?"
Pietro lowers the book down to the table between them, opening to the table of contents. "This one," he says, turning the book so she can see where he points. He makes his decisions quickly, and firmly. "And this one. This one does some interesting things with perspective, and this one here is very experimental regarding formatting." He all but writes 'Teacher' on his forehead.
Natalie's eyes flash back up to Pietro, and there's obvious surprise in her expression as she watches him. "Huh," she answers. "Formatting, huh? Is that-- uh. Is that good?"
"It is neither good nor bad, I think, but simply different. As a matter of preference, however, I prefer more traditionally told tales. I think they focus on the important elements of the story, although differences in formatting can, I will admit, help highlight certain facets," Pietro lectures.
"You," Natalie supposes with a dry smile. "Are a lit teacher, aren't you?"
Pietro looks only a bit sheepish; more, he looks wry. "Writing."
Natalie's smile widens a touch, settling into an easy grin. "Yeah? Where?"
Pietro gestures vaguely. "At Emerson. It is a private college in the Queens."
"Yeah, I know where it is," Natalie assures him, and there's a touch more respect in her gaze as she considers him anew. "English prof, huh? So what, you play racquetball with the guys on the tenure committee?"
"One of the math professors, actually, and one of the school's chaplains," Pietro says. "They play against one of the biology professors and I."
"Quite the quad," Natalie answers with a grin. "Damn. So brushing up my raquetball isn't really gonna help in the job market? Are you telling me my career counselor /lied/?"
Pietro blinks. "Were you interested in being a professor?" he asks, focusing on her with a bit more interest. "Uhm, it can't hurt."
"Was, am, will be," Natalie replies chipperly. "I'm in the math program at Columbia." She tips her head toward his book, a half nod. "Y'know. No writing, but they're still big on tenure and racquetball. Some of 'em, anyway."
"Math at Columbia? You probably aren't too concerned with impressing Emerson's board, then," Pietro says, light regarding the weight of their schools. "Math, huh? I never really had the head for it. Must not run in the family, since neither does my sister."
"We'll see where I am when I've got the shiny paper, huh?" Natalie dismisses with ease. "I've never had much of a head for real literature, so I guess we're even, huh? How'd you get into that?"
"By--" Pietro considers the question, actually taking a moment. "By writing, really, and by reading. I don't really enjoy radio, or television, or movies, but reading I can do at my own pace, in my own time. The same with writing. Why do you study math?"
"At your own pace? What, movies these days move too fast for you?" Natalie teases before she leans back and scoops up her cup for a slurp. "Mm. Math. I dunno. It just works for me. I like it when things make sense, y'know? It's not messy, but it's not /easy/. And damn, there's nothing quite as satisfying as getting something to /work/."
Pietro smiles, very slightly, with a faint glimmer of arrogance to pale eyes. "Too slow, of course. Why not be an engineer?"
"Too slow." Natalie's smile matches Pietro's and then widens beyond at that note of arrogance. She shrugs. "Why be an engineer?"
"You make things work!" The logic makes sense to Pietro.
"There are more things in heaven and earth," Natalie quips on a grin. Her fingers tap, fidgeting, against the table in front of her. "Engineering's just a tiny part of the field. Why teach writing?"
"Because I am good at it." Arrogant.
"Then why not write?" Natalie pushes with brows that arch dark above her eyes. Pointed.
Pietro snorts. "I do. But one must also pay the bills."
Natalie's expression is easy and open as she leans back and draws twitching hands into her lap. "Gotta love those. What do you write? I mean, you teach, so there's publishing or perishing, but do you do fiction too?"
"Fiction," Pietro says, nodding, "and creative essays. But short stories, not novels. I find the short story a more powerful tool."
"Really?" Natalie queries, polite (interested!) "How come?"
Pietro starts to explain, and then stops. He smiles at Natalie, something of a tease to his voice: teacher to student, mind. "You could always sit in on one of my classes, you know. I usually get paid for this."
"In all my free time," Natalie teases, and lifts a finger to jab it at him in indication. "See, now, I always knew you humanities types were crazy. You're teaching this summer?"
Pietro blinks. "Don't mathematicians?"
"Don't we what?"
"Teach in the summer," Pietro says, impatient.
"Only the ones who get the short straw," Natalie replies. "Lotta grad students teaching basic courses for incoming frosh."
"Oh, right. Columbia." Pietro scuffs a hand through silver hair. "We hard-up assistant professors teach the core things, the graduate requirements, over the summer."
"Really?" Natalie's gaze sparks surprise at this as she picks at the remains of her chicken salad. "Damn. That's gotta suck. I mean, on both ends, huh? As if the school year isn't long /enough/."
"I only teach half a load of courses during the year, so it is not so bad. I supplement my income with writing," Pietro says, "or from another perspective, ground my writing income with teaching."
"So," Natalie inquires, head tipping in an understanding nod. "If I found myself overwhelmed with freetime and wanted to come see what all this literature mumbo jumbo is all about, who would I be looking for?" A pause to pop a bite of sandwhich into her mouth and she adds, "What're you teaching this summeR?"
"Pietro," was already said, so he repeats it and then adds, "Maximoff." There is, markedly, no 'Doctor' to his name. "I teach the introductory writing classes, as well as the fiction writing workshop."
"Huh." Natalie considers this for a moment while she chews and then asks, "You're not from New York?"
"Originally, I am from Eastern Europe," he says, mildly evasive. Explaining gets to be a pain. "You?"
"Ohio," Natalie replies dryly, and scoops up her cup to twist the straw. It squeaks unpleasantly against the plastic of the lid. "Bit of an adjustment on both parts. Been here long?" A moment's pause and then she notes, kindly, "Your English is very good."
Pietro regards Natalie with discomfort, and a distant amusement. "Thank you," he says, slightly patronizing. "I've been here for a /few/ years."
The tips of Natalie's ears flood red, although any further sign of embarrassment is neatly hidden in the drop of her head for another drink. When she raises it, she's all assurances and understandings. "Oh, sure, right, you probably did your PhD work here, huh?"
Pietro smiles. "No."
Furious color continues to rise and Natalie answers, "Oh."
Pietro smiles wider.
Natalie falls silent and picks at her sandwhich.
Pietro turns the page.
Natalie gnaws momentarily at her lower lip and then drops her gaze steadfastly to her own book.
Pietro takes his empty coffee cup, drunk somewhere between words, and stands to leave. "Nice meeting you. Good luck with that math stuff!"
Natalie's gaze startles up and she nods, bobbing with another smile. "Yeah. Hey, you too, with the summer classes and stuff."
Pietro waggles a few fingers in a wave, and leaves.