A man of undetermined age, his face worn beyond his years with indecision, looks around slowly as he enters. He speaks not, but he appears to be thinking hard: And indeed there will be time
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OMG YOUR ICON. And yes, I am owned by the poem as well. J. Alfred, on the other hand, is sitting in the corner, blushing and thinking impure thoughts about your declaration of love. :)
Typist, to Liane: What he means to say is "Hello! It's nice to meet you. I'm Alfred. J. Alfred Prufrock. Lovely weather, isn't it?" He should get over this shyness soon enough (I hope).
*arches his eyebrow back, if that is to be the custom in these parts, and takes a deep breath--he's made a fool of himself enough already in this thread today*
Hello, sir. How did you manage to get the name of my former typist?
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Greetings, sir. Are you quite well?
Typist: OH MY GOD WIN.
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Um, yes, greetings, lady. Well? Yes, I am, and you?
Typist: *g*
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Hello, sir! I'm Liane.
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Um, yes, hello, Miss, braceleted arms, hello, yes, peach?
*pokes typist*
Typist, to Liane: What he means to say is "Hello! It's nice to meet you. I'm Alfred. J. Alfred Prufrock. Lovely weather, isn't it?" He should get over this shyness soon enough (I hope).
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J. Alfred: *smiles bashfully, deep breath, a bit mechanical now* It's nice to meet you, too. I apologize for my earlier manner. *looks back at typist*
Typist: *smiles and nods* I think he's almost ready to play by himself... silly man. You'd think he lived inside his head or something!
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*and who better to greet him than a puppet named after his author (sort of), no? so he'll arch an eyebrow questioningly* Hello there.
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Hello, sir. How did you manage to get the name of my former typist?
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It's just -- your middle name, my former typist, Mr. Eliot, and --- ack. Please, I don't mean to pry.
Typist: Excuse him, please, he's a little jumpy today.
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