acтιonѕ ѕpeaĸ volυмeѕ

Head jerks up at the familiar voice and a smile immediately flits across Christine’s lips. Careful to tuck both her sunglasses and phone back into her purse before stepping away from the counter, she stumbles away from the register and pastry case and circles one arm around Claude in a sleepily AFFECTIONATE side hug for an old friend. “It’s more like a plain vanilla scone with an orange juice glaze,” she replies playfully, lightly hanging off of him now, “Only if we’re comparing it to ORANGE JUICE at all, though. Which it’s really not that much like. I dunno. You can try a bite of mine if you feel like walking with me to the theatre.” 

She pulls away to reach across the counter, taking both pastries in one hand and her coffee in the other. “We’ll have to go quick though, I think I’m LATE already.” An inquisitive glance across the counter and around the kitchen and then, “No coffee for you, Claude?” She’s never quite taken the time to learn his regular order. It’s not for a lack of seeing him regularly — between Raoul and then Meg, she’s seen Claude at least once a week her entire life. It’s just… not something she’s ever entirely cared enough to learn.

Claude immediately accepted the younger woman’s side hug with a smile. “A glaze? Interesting. I don’t know if I can really get on board with that.” He announced, “Though I would love walking with you to the theatre. It’s a beautiful day, we might as well take advantage of it together.” He proposed. He couldn’t help but want to walk with her. It was way better than having to talk to himself. 

He then looked at her grabbing her items, before he picked up his own. “That’s quite alright, I’m a fast walker. Or at least I think so.” He shook his head, “No coffee for me. I’m a bit too caffeinated up enough, I don’t think coffee would do me much good.” He shrugged. “If you’d like me to hold your coffee or pastries, I have a free hand.” Claude offered with a smile. He liked helping people out, especially those he knew. Especially Christine. 

Date: May 27th — Midnight Location:  The Streets of Paris Availability: Open

Hypothetically, Meg was a creature meant for grace; On the good days, she was that, on the good days, she was at the very least adequate at that. Yet, take off the flats and replace them with heels and then add badly lit streets an uneven surface and she was all but doomed to stumble. Even with care to where and how she was walking, heel caught on uneven street, and from one moment to the next she went from upright to splayed on pavement.

Embarrassment caused face to flush, even as the street were mostly empty - There was something simply embarrassing about being finding herself like so that didn’t quite need explanation. 

   ( The basics. Get a grip and manage those at least; How can I dance when I can’t even walk? )

A few moments passed in which she collected herself, shifting into a sitting position as she took stock of herself and what hurt, grateful to find that her ankles and feet weren’t amongst what did, knowing too, that she’d be bruised tomorrow in the places that were. Eventually, gaze flickered to an individual standing nearby, staring uncomfortably, apparently uncertain whether to approach though if that was because she was a stranger, they just didn’t quite recognize her or they were uncertain whether Meg would want help, she didn’t quite know ( darkly lit streets, after all ). An unsteady laugh left lips to try and mask her own embarrassment, before she offered them a soft smile, “I’m fine, really. No need to worry.” Yet, she didn’t try and stand to support that statement.

He didn’t mean to stare, he didn’t. He just could not help himself. This was Meg, he could tell even if it was dark enough out that he couldn’t see a hand in front of him. He knew her, he liked to think he knew her like the back of his hand. His whole body stopped moving when he saw her. He looked down at the blonde, and didn’t say anything. 

It was easy to take in her features. She was beautiful, anyone who had eyes could see that she was beautiful. It wasn’t just about her beauty though, he loved everything about her. Whether or not she liked it, he knew her. He understood her, at least he liked to think that he did. 

“I’m always going to worry.” Claude replied as he joined her with the same sitting position. “Anyone who says that they’re fine, usually isn’t.” He pointed out. “It’s okay to not be fine. You’re human, no one expects you to be okay all of the time. That’d make you not human, and I don’t know if I’d be able to deal with a not human you.” Claude chuckled, as he tried to lighten up the mood. “Let me help you.”

date: may 25th time: 9:03am location: the yellow room café status: open

It’s arguably too LATE in the day for Christine to be looking as though she’s just rolled out of bed, curly hair an unruly mess of chestnut tangles, face brushed over with only a BB cream — COOLA Rōsilliance organic, a little pricey but totally worth it, and it’s made with ROSES, as she dutifully rattles off to anyone kind enough to comment on her complexion  — and eyelashes still dark and curled from her last lash lift. It’s an expensive sort of dishevelment, the type of effortless beauty that you look at and decide that’s how one looks when they’re naturally modelesque and ethereal, when in actuality it’s taken YEARS and copious amounts of money to pull off. Though Christine herself might not be a celebrity, she’s certainly grown up in the lap of luxury which only a life of fame and fortune can provide.

She finally reaches the counter and pulls down Cartier sunglasses with a tight smile signaling an effort to be polite, the greatest one she can make at the moment, but she’d rather skip the small talk this morning, thanks. “Large iced coffee, vanilla and coconut syrup, soymilk, no whip.” A beat passes as she drums manicured nails on the counter, and then, “Please.” Dark lips spread into another tight smile and she offers her cell phone, the Apple Pay screen glaring up at the cashier in bright LED lights. “OH, and an orange scone too, I think.”

A frequent customer of the café, Claude had become accustomed to having the same order. Change was not as welcome to him as he liked to think. He liked change when it did not include himself. Hypocritical, yes, but also very true. Order was better than chaos in his mind, especially when it came to himself. 

He was waiting for his order of a butter croissant as he watched Christine speak, a smile appeared on his face as a result. “I’ve heard coffee orders like that before but an orange scone? I have to ask, do they taste just like oranges? I’ve never had the pleasure of eating one before. I’m imagining it tasting like orange juice in the form of food.” He remarked as he let out a little chuckle afterward.