Jack-Raven-Mary Anne OOM

[jackdriscoll]

Jack is at a cafe. There's a lot of cafes in New York City.

He is writing. There are lots of writers in New York City. A lot of them write in cafes.

So familiar people running into this particular writer at this particular cafe would be purely coincidental, right? Right.

Comments

[song_tra_bong]

There are lots of blondes in New York City. Naturals, dye-jobs that could pass for natural, clearly bad dye-jobs, highlights and even a few wigs.

This one's a natural.

She's sitting a few tables over, not in his direct line of sight, but visible should he turn to look.

She orders coffee and a slice of cake.

The fact that her companion seems to resemble the particular writer is purely coincidental.

[creator_raven]

If Raven had biology, it might possibly be genetic. But he is not, and it is not, and possibly Jack should be very very grateful.

Possibly.

There is, after all, little certainty in the universe. Except for the fact that Raven is grinning, maybe, bright black eyes fixed on Jack.

Bastard.

[jackdriscoll]

A long time ago in a latitude far, far away, a writer named Jack Driscoll had been casually sipping at his drink and reading a book of fine literature when he heard someone say his name. The person, an actress by the name of Ann Darrow, had quite mistaken the sound recordist for himself.

It was sheer talent that kept him from spitting out his drink, then. Not so now. Not so, when he catches sight of Mary Anne and--

Well. The waitress who was walking past him? Not with the luck today.

"Oh, Christ," he spits out, and rushes to wipe her with some spare napkins.

[song_tra_bong]

Jack gets a finger-wiggle of greeting.

She leans over to Raven. "Isn't that sweet? He thinks one of us is holy."