Close your eyes and hope real hard.

[foundrychoir]

Tristram Foxe stands in the washroom of his loft, hands braced on either side of the sink, trembling. In the halflight, he cannot see the details of his person in the glass of the medicine cabinet, only the background illumination filtering in through the door from the windows that converge in a corner overlooking a busy Chicago intersection a

Comments

[suchrottenluck]

This may not be Lucy's sort of location, but never let it be said that she can resist pretty handwriting when she sees it.

She has a feeling she knows what she's looking for, but has to reaccess that opinion when she glances around the little greasy spoon and sees no one matching her mental picture, but there's someone who looks close enough that he might be the one she's seeking and he has a journal and everything. Hrm. Seems fitting.

She slides elegantly into the booth, looking as out of place in this particular diner as a Persian cat in a junkyard full of mangy dogs. "You'll find," she says, her slow southern drawl easing over the words, "that Chicago's far more eager to hear yours."

[foundrychoir]

Tristram has gone from intent observation of his environs to equally intent focus on the milkshake that arrived with his toast. His coffee sits untouched as he digs around in the tall glass, taking the icecream in small spoonfulls to savor. He flips one over into his mouth, pressing the tip of his tongue into the utensil's concavity such that at the instant Lucy approaches in his peripheral vision, he looks up to greet her wide-eyed, long-handled spoon pressed against the contour of his lower lip (and probably looking quite like an eight year old).

But at the approach of this creature, he stops, drops the spoon back into his cup with a cream-muted clatter, and spreads a cheshire smile toward his new companion as she settles

[suchrottenluck]

"Lucy la Barre," she says, offering him a gloved hand and shaking it delicately with a bashful smile. She's all the appearances of a rich southern lady who stumbled out of the wrong century and only just recently got her bearings, goodness. It's all a front, of course, but it's an easy part that she knows how to play extremely well.

"And that's very generous of you, Mr. Foxe, but I wouldn't be much of a lady if I accepted anything from a perfect stranger. It don't seem right to take advantage somehow." She waves to a waitress. "Excuse me, ma'am? Vanilla milkshake, extra whipped cream. Please and thank you."

Yes, she's rather good at this front.

She turns back with a wide smile, propping her elbows up and folding her hands under her chin. "I'm new in town, myself. I came in just before Christmas, after I heard Chicago was the place to be."

[foundrychoir]

“A pleasure, Lucy.” Tristram lets Lucy's fingers slip from his, his hands return idly to the milkshake, stirring slowly and watching her, watching.

“As you like it.” He never breaks his smile.

The waitress nods with a smile at Lucy, a younger girl taken in a bit by Lucy's pettiness, her projection of great class. The waitress, and Tristram, both know that Lucy is not this diner's typical client.

“Anything else for you, sir?”

“No, ma'am. Not yet.”

She departs, leaving the two new acquaintances alone. Tristram, mimicking Lucy's posture somewhat with his long hands laid one another under one side of his jaw, purses his lips slightly. “Is it? I've been here about a year, but I can't say I've...” silence swings in, his eyes wandering as he considers his words. “Explored, very much.”

But he was going to fix that. Starting today. Starting when Lucy la Barre stepped into Nicolette's.

“Where were you before Christmas?”