Meeting with Coffee
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The White Room
A small, comfortable little place, this - a minuscule cafe of little fame and ridiculously good coffee. The main room is small and rather inordinately comfortable, prevented from being claustrophobic by a theme of whites in the decor and the fact that the regulars - a sundry bunch of academics, artists, lawyers, workpersons, and every other group New York has to offer - are generally quietly occupied with coffee and good, solid plates of food. There is no theme, no specialized and exotic varieties of coffee or tea - the atmosphere is thick with cigarette smoke and comfort, not desperate sophistication.
[Exits : [O]ut ]
[Players : Travis ]
It's about that time of night. And Travis is seated in the fairly crowded White Room. Except for the fact that the table behind him has remained strangely empty. Well, not so strange if you note the glare that has met anyone who sat there, along with an odd rushed feeling they might have begun to notice shortly after taking that seat. There's a newspaper spread across the table, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, as Travis surveys the room idly in between columns.
Mark pushes the door open, escaping the heat left over from the day, still bouncing around the concrete and metal of New York City. He is dressed in mostly black, with a thick strip of blood red going around the chest of the button up shirt. He runs a hand through his freshly-dyed hair (black, of course), his thick rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose. He shoulders his way up to the counter and throws out an order for a black tea. The boy turns with the fresh steeped cup and glances around, making his way for the single empty table.
That empty table has a chair directly behind Travis, so he slides his chair in slightly to allow room for the newcomer, glancing over his shoulder slightly to make sure there's enough space, with a slight nod toward the man, before turning his apparant indifferent gaze back to his paper.
Mark gives a curt nod in response to the man. He sits at the table and scoots in, stretching his legs out underneath it. His bored eyes flick around the room for a moment, only to return to the steaming cup of tea in front of him. "Thanks." Mark finally says, though the Frenchman's voice holds no real emotion.
Travis glances back up at the word, his eyes flickering up. "Oh, not a problem. Don't mention it." He starts to go back to his paper, then looks back up. "Do I know--oh, you just moved into the apartments across the street, right? Think I saw you moving in not too long back, hmm?"
Mark curls his fingers around the hot surface of the cup. He brings it close to his face, his mouth parting to blow on it gently. The young man keeps his eyes on Travis for a moment. Mark nods before finally sitting up and away from the tea. "Yes... zat would be me." He says with a shrug, his accent just slightly thick. "Autumn Lights?" He inquires, as if confirming. "It is a nice place."
"Eh, could be worse, I guess," Travis shrugs in response. "Least they're not terribly run-down and the rent's reasonable." He pauses to sip at his own drink. "You're not from around here?" Yes, Travis can play the nosy American role when it suits him.
Mark finally takes a sip of his tea, trying to ignore his pleading taste-buds to allow it to cool more. This man isn't one to wait... not anymore. He leans back in the chair and rolls his shoulders, nodding and attempting a small smile to Travis. "Yes." Mark agrees simply, adjusting his gasses and looking away. "I am from France." He explains quickly, looking back over. "Been here... ah, a little over two years, yes." Mark explains further, shrugging. "You?"
"Ah. Took French in highschool, but I'll not subject you to whatever bad accent my memory still holds," Travis turns his chair slightly to allow for a bit easier conversation. But not too far to allow him to withdraw to his newspaper, should conversation not occur. "Lived in this area my life," he shrugs. "Moved to the city several years back. Very different from home then?"
Mark is also facing at an odd angle. Of course, being too lazy to do anything about it, mark relies on curling his hands onto the edges of the seat. Though it's a slight movement, one could maybe still see that the chair was starting to turn itself. "Have you?" He wonders aloud, bobbing head head. Another sip of the tea is taken. "Ah... very different... I was mostly in ze countryside of France... zough I was born in Paris and stayed zere quite a bit. No rushing and working zis whole nine to five nonsense. No, no."
"9-5 Nonsense indeed," Travis sniffs. "Not sure who decided on that, but they deseve to be shot. Can't say I've lived in the country, but I guess I'm of that mindset still. I agree, it's not the way life was intended to be lived."
Mark laughs bitterly, nodding vigorously to the other. "Yes yes. But work has it's points of good. Money, for one." He says, shrugging. "I do miss ze country. Easier life... less... hassle." He growls slightly, suddenly looking just slightly miffed. "Ze name is Mark, by ze way... Mark Tompkins." He offers, holding out a hand.
"I'm Travis" he replies, quickly shaking the man's hand. "Also live over in Autumn Lights, if you hadn't guessed. And it's not the work, it's the... repetition. But yes, a regular job is nice for that regular paycheck. Which, sadly, I am currently somewhere between."
Mark pulls his hand back, letting it curl right back around the cup. "Travis?" He inquires again, a memory of something flicking on in his mind. Of course, there are probably a million people named Travis in New York, so no connection is attempted. "Good to meet you." He says with a quick lick of his lips. "No job? Zat is too bad... I was feeling ze same way not too long ago... got myself a good one, however, with good pay."
"I'm enjoying the freedom at least," Travis says. "Odd jobs here and there. Least enough to pay the rent for the time being. I suppose I'll be looking more seriously in another couple weeks." His stray hand plays with the edge of the newspaper while sipping at his coffee. "What do you do now? Lot of jobs in the city, most of them not worth calling 'good.'"
Mark snorts slightly and tilts his neck to the side slightly, a free hand coming up to scratch at it. "Freedom... ironic, no? Zis country is all about ze word.... yet... here I am." He laughs to himself. "I am a... well, a secretary, for lack of better words. It is easy, I like my fellow workers... my boss is more a friend zan anyzing."
"I guess that's worth a lot," Travis says. "I think they say something like 65% of people would stay with their jobs most their life if they could get along with their co-workers. Or something like that."
Mark tunnels a finger under his glasses and rubs carefully at an eye. "Well, I do get along with mine. Tell me... what exactly do you do? Just odd jobs... or somezing more specific?" He inquires, sending a glance to Travis. Of course, almost a second later it's dropped back to his tea.
"Mostly odd jobs," Travis shrugs. "Not lawn-type stuff, but... miscellaneous professional services, I suppose you say. A lot of delivery-type work of late."
Mark nods slowly, his eyes rolling up in thought. "Well, hmm. If you ever find yourself lacking of ze work... you just tell me... my boss might have use of such a zing." He offers, smacking his lips and letting his eyes fall. "Of course, you can't quote me on zat." The boy fishes into a pocket and grabs out a business card. Not of himself, though... the name reads 'Sabella Miller'. He hands it over.
"Well, thanks for the thought," Travis says, beginning to shrug, but taking the card nonetheless. He starts to put it in his pocket, then glances at it again. "Sabella Miller," he says, face taking on a bemused expression. "Small world..." He tucks the card away. "Secretary for Sabella... How did you come across that opportunity?"
Mark taps his fingers gently on the table, getting himself into a steady beat. He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing at the words. "Is it? Why...?" He questions, but leave it unanswered as he hears the next question. "Ah... I ran into her... at ze, um... ze Sanctuary. Offered me a job." He finally mumbles in a low voice. "Why, do you know her?"
"Slightly," Travis says with a shrug. "I did a job for her... oh, it must have been almost two years ago." Which, if Mark knows anything about Sabella, reveals quite a lot about his own line of work. "Once off thing; I've not spoken to her since. Very shrewd woman, she is. Working with her regularly would be quite the experience."
Mark watches the other carefully, a frown growing on his lips. He breaths in, a hand digging idly at his chin. "Oh you did?" He says slowly, running a tongue over his teeth. "Shrewd? I assume you had somzing of a falling out?" He shifts uncomfortably. "I find her to be rather nice."
Travis shakes his head. "No... Shrewd... doesn't have to be negative. Maybe practical would be a better word. Guess just one of the nuances of English--not that you don't speak it very well, of course," he adds hastily. "Anyways, I just finished the job, and we went on our ways. She seemed happy, I got paid. Job well done. Now that I think of it... I picked up something in my travels. Haven't been able to find a buyer, but she might... Do you know if she still collects... ah, rare gems?"
Mark looks slightly confused, but shrugs anyways. "Ah... I see..." He looks down and sips his tea, trying not to look embarrassed. "It is hard... yes, to speak." Mark finally mumbles, tapping his foot on the ground. "Sabella is good with being quick, and on task..." He, of course, knows first hand. "Collects? Rare gems? Well.. actually... I do not know zat. But... I'm sure you could ask, yes? Or I could pass ze message along?"
"It may be nothing. I don't want to bother her if it's not. I know she keeps busy," Travis shrugs. "Certainly nothing urgent, but now that I think of it, she might... well, if the subject comes up. She may have my number but..." he quickly scribbles the digits out on a napkin, passing it Mark's way. "If she's interested, she can reach me here. I'll hang on to it for a few days before looking for any other buyers, just in case."
Mark drains the rest of his tea, turning his eyes down to look at the number on the napkin. The boy sets the cup down and grabs the thing, slipping it into his top pocket. "Very good." He says and leans back, nodding to him. "I will make sure she gets ze message." Mark pinches the end of his glasses and adjusts them again, patting the pocket soundly.
Travis nods, downing the rest of his coffee. "Well, Mark, it was a pleasure to meet you," he says, pushing his chair back to stand. "I suppose I'll see you around, what with living in the same building."
The White Room
A small, comfortable little place, this - a minuscule cafe of little fame and ridiculously good coffee. The main room is small and rather inordinately comfortable, prevented from being claustrophobic by a theme of whites in the decor and the fact that the regulars - a sundry bunch of academics, artists, lawyers, workpersons, and every other group New York has to offer - are generally quietly occupied with coffee and good, solid plates of food. There is no theme, no specialized and exotic varieties of coffee or tea - the atmosphere is thick with cigarette smoke and comfort, not desperate sophistication.
[Exits : [O]ut ]
[Players : Travis ]
It's about that time of night. And Travis is seated in the fairly crowded White Room. Except for the fact that the table behind him has remained strangely empty. Well, not so strange if you note the glare that has met anyone who sat there, along with an odd rushed feeling they might have begun to notice shortly after taking that seat. There's a newspaper spread across the table, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, as Travis surveys the room idly in between columns.
Mark pushes the door open, escaping the heat left over from the day, still bouncing around the concrete and metal of New York City. He is dressed in mostly black, with a thick strip of blood red going around the chest of the button up shirt. He runs a hand through his freshly-dyed hair (black, of course), his thick rimmed glasses perched on the end of his nose. He shoulders his way up to the counter and throws out an order for a black tea. The boy turns with the fresh steeped cup and glances around, making his way for the single empty table.
That empty table has a chair directly behind Travis, so he slides his chair in slightly to allow room for the newcomer, glancing over his shoulder slightly to make sure there's enough space, with a slight nod toward the man, before turning his apparant indifferent gaze back to his paper.
Mark gives a curt nod in response to the man. He sits at the table and scoots in, stretching his legs out underneath it. His bored eyes flick around the room for a moment, only to return to the steaming cup of tea in front of him. "Thanks." Mark finally says, though the Frenchman's voice holds no real emotion.
Travis glances back up at the word, his eyes flickering up. "Oh, not a problem. Don't mention it." He starts to go back to his paper, then looks back up. "Do I know--oh, you just moved into the apartments across the street, right? Think I saw you moving in not too long back, hmm?"
Mark curls his fingers around the hot surface of the cup. He brings it close to his face, his mouth parting to blow on it gently. The young man keeps his eyes on Travis for a moment. Mark nods before finally sitting up and away from the tea. "Yes... zat would be me." He says with a shrug, his accent just slightly thick. "Autumn Lights?" He inquires, as if confirming. "It is a nice place."
"Eh, could be worse, I guess," Travis shrugs in response. "Least they're not terribly run-down and the rent's reasonable." He pauses to sip at his own drink. "You're not from around here?" Yes, Travis can play the nosy American role when it suits him.
Mark finally takes a sip of his tea, trying to ignore his pleading taste-buds to allow it to cool more. This man isn't one to wait... not anymore. He leans back in the chair and rolls his shoulders, nodding and attempting a small smile to Travis. "Yes." Mark agrees simply, adjusting his gasses and looking away. "I am from France." He explains quickly, looking back over. "Been here... ah, a little over two years, yes." Mark explains further, shrugging. "You?"
"Ah. Took French in highschool, but I'll not subject you to whatever bad accent my memory still holds," Travis turns his chair slightly to allow for a bit easier conversation. But not too far to allow him to withdraw to his newspaper, should conversation not occur. "Lived in this area my life," he shrugs. "Moved to the city several years back. Very different from home then?"
Mark is also facing at an odd angle. Of course, being too lazy to do anything about it, mark relies on curling his hands onto the edges of the seat. Though it's a slight movement, one could maybe still see that the chair was starting to turn itself. "Have you?" He wonders aloud, bobbing head head. Another sip of the tea is taken. "Ah... very different... I was mostly in ze countryside of France... zough I was born in Paris and stayed zere quite a bit. No rushing and working zis whole nine to five nonsense. No, no."
"9-5 Nonsense indeed," Travis sniffs. "Not sure who decided on that, but they deseve to be shot. Can't say I've lived in the country, but I guess I'm of that mindset still. I agree, it's not the way life was intended to be lived."
Mark laughs bitterly, nodding vigorously to the other. "Yes yes. But work has it's points of good. Money, for one." He says, shrugging. "I do miss ze country. Easier life... less... hassle." He growls slightly, suddenly looking just slightly miffed. "Ze name is Mark, by ze way... Mark Tompkins." He offers, holding out a hand.
"I'm Travis" he replies, quickly shaking the man's hand. "Also live over in Autumn Lights, if you hadn't guessed. And it's not the work, it's the... repetition. But yes, a regular job is nice for that regular paycheck. Which, sadly, I am currently somewhere between."
Mark pulls his hand back, letting it curl right back around the cup. "Travis?" He inquires again, a memory of something flicking on in his mind. Of course, there are probably a million people named Travis in New York, so no connection is attempted. "Good to meet you." He says with a quick lick of his lips. "No job? Zat is too bad... I was feeling ze same way not too long ago... got myself a good one, however, with good pay."
"I'm enjoying the freedom at least," Travis says. "Odd jobs here and there. Least enough to pay the rent for the time being. I suppose I'll be looking more seriously in another couple weeks." His stray hand plays with the edge of the newspaper while sipping at his coffee. "What do you do now? Lot of jobs in the city, most of them not worth calling 'good.'"
Mark snorts slightly and tilts his neck to the side slightly, a free hand coming up to scratch at it. "Freedom... ironic, no? Zis country is all about ze word.... yet... here I am." He laughs to himself. "I am a... well, a secretary, for lack of better words. It is easy, I like my fellow workers... my boss is more a friend zan anyzing."
"I guess that's worth a lot," Travis says. "I think they say something like 65% of people would stay with their jobs most their life if they could get along with their co-workers. Or something like that."
Mark tunnels a finger under his glasses and rubs carefully at an eye. "Well, I do get along with mine. Tell me... what exactly do you do? Just odd jobs... or somezing more specific?" He inquires, sending a glance to Travis. Of course, almost a second later it's dropped back to his tea.
"Mostly odd jobs," Travis shrugs. "Not lawn-type stuff, but... miscellaneous professional services, I suppose you say. A lot of delivery-type work of late."
Mark nods slowly, his eyes rolling up in thought. "Well, hmm. If you ever find yourself lacking of ze work... you just tell me... my boss might have use of such a zing." He offers, smacking his lips and letting his eyes fall. "Of course, you can't quote me on zat." The boy fishes into a pocket and grabs out a business card. Not of himself, though... the name reads 'Sabella Miller'. He hands it over.
"Well, thanks for the thought," Travis says, beginning to shrug, but taking the card nonetheless. He starts to put it in his pocket, then glances at it again. "Sabella Miller," he says, face taking on a bemused expression. "Small world..." He tucks the card away. "Secretary for Sabella... How did you come across that opportunity?"
Mark taps his fingers gently on the table, getting himself into a steady beat. He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing at the words. "Is it? Why...?" He questions, but leave it unanswered as he hears the next question. "Ah... I ran into her... at ze, um... ze Sanctuary. Offered me a job." He finally mumbles in a low voice. "Why, do you know her?"
"Slightly," Travis says with a shrug. "I did a job for her... oh, it must have been almost two years ago." Which, if Mark knows anything about Sabella, reveals quite a lot about his own line of work. "Once off thing; I've not spoken to her since. Very shrewd woman, she is. Working with her regularly would be quite the experience."
Mark watches the other carefully, a frown growing on his lips. He breaths in, a hand digging idly at his chin. "Oh you did?" He says slowly, running a tongue over his teeth. "Shrewd? I assume you had somzing of a falling out?" He shifts uncomfortably. "I find her to be rather nice."
Travis shakes his head. "No... Shrewd... doesn't have to be negative. Maybe practical would be a better word. Guess just one of the nuances of English--not that you don't speak it very well, of course," he adds hastily. "Anyways, I just finished the job, and we went on our ways. She seemed happy, I got paid. Job well done. Now that I think of it... I picked up something in my travels. Haven't been able to find a buyer, but she might... Do you know if she still collects... ah, rare gems?"
Mark looks slightly confused, but shrugs anyways. "Ah... I see..." He looks down and sips his tea, trying not to look embarrassed. "It is hard... yes, to speak." Mark finally mumbles, tapping his foot on the ground. "Sabella is good with being quick, and on task..." He, of course, knows first hand. "Collects? Rare gems? Well.. actually... I do not know zat. But... I'm sure you could ask, yes? Or I could pass ze message along?"
"It may be nothing. I don't want to bother her if it's not. I know she keeps busy," Travis shrugs. "Certainly nothing urgent, but now that I think of it, she might... well, if the subject comes up. She may have my number but..." he quickly scribbles the digits out on a napkin, passing it Mark's way. "If she's interested, she can reach me here. I'll hang on to it for a few days before looking for any other buyers, just in case."
Mark drains the rest of his tea, turning his eyes down to look at the number on the napkin. The boy sets the cup down and grabs the thing, slipping it into his top pocket. "Very good." He says and leans back, nodding to him. "I will make sure she gets ze message." Mark pinches the end of his glasses and adjusts them again, patting the pocket soundly.
Travis nods, downing the rest of his coffee. "Well, Mark, it was a pleasure to meet you," he says, pushing his chair back to stand. "I suppose I'll see you around, what with living in the same building."