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Caritas [Thursday evening]

Tonight, Robin was playing amateur mixologist again.

Poor Tino was having to try her experiments. Robin was no longer allowed near the maple syrup.

[I am so not all here tonight, but I'm aroundish if slow!]

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But now I'm buildin' sandcastles in the saaaaaaaaaand.

Thought I could fly when I held your haaaaaaand.

Eternity turns to black and white.

It was the greatest week and a half of my life.

Not only had Adah's mail remained bereft of any notification of her acceptance into Emory's summer program, but it had dawned on her, slowly and steadily through the day, that she actually had planned for tomorrow what could be considered an honest-to-goodness, no-way-to-really-skew-it-otherwise...etad tomorrow. It was a little hard to swallow, really, and disturbed her slightly on several levels. It was the sort of thing that called for a rare venture into the town, into the bar, for a bit of a monetary splurge.

She scribbled onto a napkin her order for her glass of amontillado, slid it forward, and the plopped her notebook ceremoniously onto the bar, where she would then continue to bend crookedly over, hunched with her hair cascading down like a curtain over her flurried movement of her pen. Scratching out therapeutic scenarios, Poe-esque tributes, to fit the theme of her rare splurges into his alcoholism, of potential, horrific, gristly, grotesque, nauseating, macabre ways in which tomorrow evening might turn out. The poetry of Adah's words were by in no way a match for Poe's. Poetry was difficult, after all. However, she felt that she'd done good ol' Edgar proud with the scenarios, and would probably cause a bit of an arched eyebrow of alarm should anyone venture into attempting to read through the curtain.

Robin just got her the amontillado, and eyed the notebook. "Homework?"

"Are you sure this doesn't taste strange?" he asked, frowning, looking at the piece of meat, still slightly red with brown-red blood dripping in a trail like sweat down the curve of his fork.
"Only in the respect," she replied coolly, before a bite of her own, unassuming, innocently, "that you've made it and, therefor, is most likely subpar."

Unless the bartender counted the sound of the scratching pen as a response, she got none, not at first, until, finally, finishing a sentence, there was a small, jerking shake of the head of hair that silently ordered the amontillado. What class did she have that might require homework? Ethics was mostly a joke to her, an exercise in Skywalker's own ego and she won his approval easily enough, and she could do her maths work in her sleep. Homework. Ha!

"Diary?" she guessed.

Mindless cattle, chewing cud, he had that look on his face that suggested that he might be thinking, although that was an insult to the process of pondering. "I think it tastes funny."
"It tastes fine," she answered, although her eyes narrowed slightly at his plate.

The answer to the question, again, was a shake of her hair, a jerk of her head in as smooth as a negation that Adah could manage, which wasn't very smooth at all. She did, however, seem to lift an eye a bit, glancing toward the bartender, a question buried beneath her arched eyebrow. What sort of moron would write a diary in a public place?

"Yeah, I know," Robin said, guessing at that look. "But I thought maybe you were people watching and making notes on people."

Adah took a moment to lift her head enough that she could glance a bit to the left, even less to the right (the right side was a bit more difficult, after all), at alllllll the people she would potentially be making notes on. Oh, yes. Just rife with material there...

And then she went back to writing, after sparing a moment to take a sip of her drink before ducking her head again.

"It definitely doesn't taste like it should..." he slowly muttered.
"This repetition habit of yours has got to stop," she muttered back, although her slight suggestion of a scowl had nothing to do with his habit of saying things more than necessary. It was the scowl of suspicion, of worry, rising like the tides and smelling just as terrible.

Edited 2008-04-18 02:22 (UTC)

"Hey, there's me and Tino," Robin pointed out, going back to her beer.

Adah shrugged her good shoulder. The bartender did have a point in the fact that, yes, they were there, but bartenders, you see, were only interesting to watch if there were other patrons around. That way, one could observe whose drinks they watered down and whose they served with more than the expected amount of alcohol, which glasses they used and the level of cleanliness and whether or not they were aware of this, which customers they nudged bowls of peanuts towards and which customers they subtly had to tango over each other in an attempt to force the other to deal with them instead.

     Surprisingly, he said nothing more after this, his knife sawing with more power than necessary; he couldn't help it, although it was uncertain whether the excess was because of his arms or simply because he was male and such was the sway of testosterone, evident even in the fact that the bites he shoveled in his mouth were too big.
     One would think she would be grateful for the silence, but, in the sway of her own chemicals, her estrogen, the silence was unsettling. Or perhaps there was something else swaying her nervous attention to how his jaw clenched and flexed and relaxed with the steady motion of mastication. Something much simpler, something much easier to sense.
     Could it be sensed? Could it, like fear to a dog, be picked up over the slightly charred aroma of his attempts to cook lingering in the tight air?

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