(Untitled)

[yuppie_trash]

The door opens. Without notice, caught on the threshold, speaking into his cellular (not just a phone) device. "...Did you send the Frank Gehry vase to the Forlani-Scott nuptials?"

(Small. Hand-blown Venetian glass. 12" high. Size may vary slightly as each piece is unique."Along with my sincere regrets that I could not attend their reception in

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[7twistedwishes]

The elegant woman in a business suit approaches, taking a seat at the next table. She has a mug of coffee, and a file folder, but neither seems to captivate her attention, since her gaze keeps drifting to the window and to the victory of Final Entropy.

Oh yes, she also offers the man a nod.

[yuppie_trash]

A quick glance over, a moment of his attention while he makes an assessment of her.

She offers a nod. He reciprocates with a often practiced, mostly polite, and very false smile that is plastic. As deliberate as melamine added to the wheat gluten filler in pet food. In lieu of starting actual conversation.

It takes three seconds.

He glances away.

[7twistedwishes]

Finally, the coffee gets the attention it deserves, before going cold. The files, alas, fail, and remain untouched while Scarlet glances at the man, two seconds whole to appraise him. Interesting.

She glances at the folder, pondering the worth of opening it versus the hassle of opening it.

[yuppie_trash]

The edge of his mouth twitches. The smile fades.

The worth versus the annoyance of it.

He ventures the former against the latters, and speaks. Casual. (Calculated.) Cool. "Bringing business into a bar? ...Isn't that a strike against you, miss? It's rude, really. Bad manners."

[giftedthom]

Thom kicks out a chair, wine in hand. He looks happy.

"Guess what."

[yuppie_trash]

"...You want to go to Bolivia so that you can meet Cuban leader Fidel Castro's body double and president Evo Morales?" He asks with a slightly wicked smile, ignoring the view and the coffee in order to study the new person to annoy him.

He flips a hand out, a few fingers extended (Wait a minute, I'm still trying to guess here) in a gesture. Eventually his eyes narrow and he his fingers tap against his bottom lip, "You're..."

He settles back into his chair, bemused.

"...well, fuck. You have color in your cheeks, Thommy-boy. What's the secret?"

[giftedthom]

"Don't call me that," says Thom automatically, wondering what 'Cuban' means. He sits down. "Keep guessing."

[yuppie_trash]

"...Getting married? Running away to join Cirque du Soleil as an acrobat? Discovered a new source of fuel in the Mojave desert? Are you..."

It takes a moment to consider the array of possibilities, studying the young man's features a little longer. He believes that he finds the answer in the (--a dark violet which is equivalent to pigment violet, i.e., the color violet as it would typically be reproduced by artist's paints, colored pencils, or crayons as opposed to the brighter "electric") eyes. He laughs lightly, perhaps surprised. Or ready to be laughed at for the suggestion he makes:

"...living?"

[song_tra_bong]

"Sweetheart!"

Mary Anne pulls up a chair across from him, one hand wrapped around a cocktail glass. "Darling, whatever have you been up to?"

[yuppie_trash]

In a low drone, he echoes the endearment, the suggestion of a smirk at the edges of eyes (if absent in the crescent moon smile). "...Oh, sweetheart, this and that. A little this with China. A little that with India. Booming economic powers need to be watched, baby."

A flick of wrist, a glint of onyx cufflink.

"What have you been occupying your time with...?"

[song_tra_bong]

"Nothing as interesting as you," she replies.

"A little war, a few travel plans, watching the world go by...Nothing special."