|
Post by Theodosia Eustace on Apr 9, 2007 13:38:21 GMT 7
Fishing her wallet from the abyss of her purse, Thea pinched it opened and parted the few crumpled dollars that had been stuffed in between the leather. A macchiato might not burn a hole in her pocket, but the meagre bills she fingered through were enough to sink her stomach. Luckily she'd get her paycheck handed to her in the next day or two, given that the editor didn't find any drastic problems on her second sweep––and given that Chris had some substantial stuff for her to make use of.
Expository writing was not Thea's strength––she hated solid, dry fact almost as much as she hated admitting that she had difficulty assuming a neutral, non-analytical and non-combative voice. Her assignment this time was to take the topic, observe it, but the editors had stressed her not to delve too deeply into it. Out of a terribly bad, college-rooted habit, Thea turned to Chris to help her slip past the chief editors' criticism by utilizing photographs that captured the voice that had been strangled out of her writing. Surprisingly, the two of them had a similar eye, keen on the same interpretations.
But over the past two weeks, their schedules overlapped and mismatched at every possible point. While she waited in line, the machines whirring and the liquid steaming in the background, she recalled first approaching him. She was always a little embarrassed to ask him to take the time out of his own busy schedule to photograph for her, but when they ran the dates between them and she realized how pinched he actually was for time, the even more ashamed she became. Chris, however, the good friend that he was, insisted on taking a few shots for her anyway––only the times he was available conflicted with hers, and the due date was cutting his inspiration short.
So they had worked separately. She worked on her article, e-mailed him the draft when she had the mind and the moment; he took the pictures and called her up the night before to let her know he had some. They agreed to meet over their lunch break since they both had extra time to spare: he had a late afternoon date with a client, she had taken the afternoon off because her flight home for her grandfather's funeral was warranted she be at the airport by 1:30pm.
Her turn came up and she briskly ordered a caramel macchiato and laid down an extra five dollars for one of the overpriced sandwiches in the case. Three minutes later, she had both in hand, and made her way to her favourite, two-seater table by the broad café window.
|
|
|
Post by Christian Patrick Elliot on Apr 10, 2007 0:52:44 GMT 7
Crossing the street with long, fluid strides and a solemn expression, Christian made his way towards the Starbucks on 47th and Broadway. Brilliant rays of sunlight reflected off the silver skyscrapers, casting an almost unbearable amount of light down to the street. Despite his sunglasses, Christian still caught himself squinting as he dodged a yellow taxi and made a little leap to the safety of the sidewalk. Pulling open the glass door, he entered the bustling Starbucks and stepped in line.
While he waited in line, Christian pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head and slipped his folder under his arm. His photographs were far from his best work, but they were definitely not his worst. His muse was struck at a strange time, pressed between weeks of important deadlines and client meetings. Even today he was making a quick stop to give Thea her photos before he met to set up an interview with one of the local art enthusiasts.
Once his vanilla latte was in hand, Christian let his eyes trace the entire room in attempt to find Thea. It wasn't very hard. She was one of the few striking red-heads and had a unique look all her own. He found her at a two person table not far from the window looking out at the New York corner.
He approached the table, setting the folder in front of her before moving out his chair and easing into his seat. "Afternoon," he said, giving her a pleasant, though short, smile before taking a sip of his drink. For once it was in a paper cup rather than a mug, but only because Christian had forgotten to snatch it from his kitchen counter before walking out the door.
Coughing to clear his throat, Christian leaned back in his chair and nodded towards the folder. "You're not looking at the Van Gogh of photography, but I think they will suit. It's the best I could do with the time restraints," he said with a shrug and gentle raising of his eyebrows.
|
|
|
Post by Theodosia Eustace on Apr 10, 2007 1:26:10 GMT 7
Thea gave a quick brush of her hands to whisk away the crumbs from her sandwich, giving her thumb a smack to clean the ooze of mayo that was on it. Taking her napkin and angling it just beneath the table top she whisked the crumbs onto it, folded it, and stuffed it in the small bag they had given her. She had had jobs at a few restaurants before and had developed a small fetish about leaving her table as clean as she could after she'd eaten. Working at places where people would sit and leave half their meal all over the table, in the seat and on the floor or totally sabotage the bathrooms meant she had to clean it up––and that was certainly a job she didn't wish on anyone else.
By now her macchiato had cooled enough to where it wouldn't scald her tongue. Thea lifted it to her lips and took a tentative first sip, hazel eyes drifting out the window to the bustling street beyond. A little part of her wished that she was going on that plane back to the Midwest for good––she was sick of the city scene and her hectic lifestyle. Life here was fast-paced and it never seemed to stop––it just kept on breezing by and if you didn't keep up with the pace, you'd get left in the dust.
A sudden movement near the street corner caught her eye, causing her to smile: Chris had turned slightly to give the taxi driver who'd almost clipped him a dark scowl before heading into the Starbucks. She watched him enter and almost laughed at the expression on his face when he saw how long the line was. It wasn't essentially a blatant look of surprise––more of an uncomfortable scrunch of his lips and a pinching tick in his jaw. Normally someone as serious as Chris would be someone she simply couldn't stand, but in his seriousness she found a glimmer of humour. Shaking her head, Thea decided not to watch him because it would give her too many opportunities to poke fun at him.
Instead she looked back out the window, idly counting the number of red cars she saw versus the number of white, numbly impressed that the number of white was trumping the number of red. Nearly fifteen minutes later her tallying was interrupted by the scrape of a chair on tile and the grating 'pat!' of a folder on the table.
"Let's send my four dollar macchiato over the edge, why don't we?" Thea teased, as if the scant weight of the folder could knock her drink off the table. After scooting the macchiato a little closer to the centre, she took the folder in her hands, brows lifting at its lightness. Biting her lip to keep from saying anything she opened the folder and began to sift through its contents slowly, studiously... and then winced.
|
|
|
Post by Christian Patrick Elliot on Apr 10, 2007 1:59:43 GMT 7
A smirk played on the journalist's lips as he rolled his eyes and took another sip of his latte. The amusement the young woman found in Christian was beyond his knowledge. She was full of humoured remarks and smart retorts. Originally Christian had not been sure how to interpret her jests. He had a hard time discovering if her words were literal or playful. Over time he grew to recognize her tones and expressions, and learned how to properly dismiss them.
Lowering the paper cup, Christian's eyes lingered on Thea while she flipped through the photographs in the folder. His brows furrowed when he saw the expression on her face. His hand, wrapped carefully around the white and green coffee cup, seemed to halt in mid-air and hung there for several seconds. When he finally set it down on the table, his dark eyes were flickering from the photos to Thea.
"You don't like them." His tone was low with a hint of accusation. He noticed the way the corners of her mouth had raised, her lips thinning just enough to be a wince rather than anger or frustration. Christian uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his seat. The fingers that had been enclosed on his mug were not flat on the table, not tense but not far from it. Although his own expression was just as subtle as her own, his accusation and disappointment managed to shine through.
|
|
|
Post by Theodosia Eustace on Apr 13, 2007 7:22:58 GMT 7
"I don't ever not like your work Chris," Thea countered, the quickness of her response almost curt. Lifting her hazel eyes over the portfolio she held, she gave him a pointed look, brows slightly lifted for emphasis. She continued to shuffle through them until she had seen them all, closed the folder and delicately laid it on the tabletop. After a brisk drink of her macchiato, Thea strained to find words to tell him how she felt about the pictures without making it sound negative. Chris had a frequent habit of mistaking what she said for uncalled for criticism.
"I just wish I could've been with you this time––I don't know if I can use any of these!" Leaning forward over the table on one elbow, she pressed two fingers to her temple. As if things couldn't get anymore stressful, she thought despairingly. Thea bit her lip, gently opened the folder and began to look through the photographs again. While she looked, she babbled fretfully, "And I'm not blaming you Chris... my stomach is just in knots because I know you took the time to do this for me..."
|
|
|
Post by Christian Patrick Elliot on Apr 13, 2007 22:58:46 GMT 7
Christian watched Thea with eyebrows raised and lips thinned just enough to let her know he was not believing what she was telling him. She responded so quickly that he knew she was trying to find a way around what she wanted to say. He narrowed his eyes at her and watched her as he took a sip of his latte.
When she finally spoke, Christian rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to say something but nothing came out. He put down his latte and watched her press her fingers to her temple. "How can you not use them?" he responded once his paper cup was safely on the table. "I took the photographs you asked me to take, did I not? Are those not photos of the homeless, Thea? That is what your article is about unless you changed your mind overnight," he said, shaking his head quizzically at her.
He sighed and looked out the window when she said she wasn't blaming him. Christian hadn't meant to blow up at her or throw so many questions in her face, but he was clearly mistaken on the work he thought she wanted. "What were you looking for, Thea?" he asked after a moment, turning to look at her with a more calmed expression.
|
|