olive

✑ 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐧;

    Spencer finds himself grimacing at the sight of more mucky children leaving the joint. It’s like he’s some kind of child repellant and he’s certainly not complaining. “Not babysitting, that’s for sure,” he mutters, although his humour somehow survives his displeasure.

He could swear that kids these days are raised on another planet than he was. Spencer was taught to represent himself smartly, politely and, above all else, dead-silently where possible. ‘You’re representing the school’ or ‘you’re representing the church’ were common themes of his childhood. Get caught so much as wolfing down a bag of chips on a public bus whilst sporting the private school’s uniform and you’d get scolded for your inadequacy. His father was more gracious about the churches image than his teachers work about the school, but it was no easier an image to maintain. You can take off a school uniform but you can’t change your face. The moral: behave. He almost wishes he had the right to saw as much to the little dweebs in the cafe, but more so wants nothing to do with them.

Eventually, thoughts of his past and the stark comparison to the present abandon him, and he’s able to give the woman his full attention. “I was hoping to get some writing down,” he finally levels, adding with a meaningful look: “I thought maybe I’d find my muse if I stepped out of the house a while.” The hypocrisy of the lazy elbow he leans on the edge of the table after inwardly lecturing the children in the cafe on their bad manners is conveniently ignored as he considers the woman across from him. “What about you? Maybe your life is a little more glamorous than this place and you can pull me out of my rut.”

— ⭒ Olive Boyd ⭒ —

A smirk curled at her lips at the derisive way he muttered about the children. A part of her was compelled to commiserate with that particular emotion— she wasn’t all that fond of the idea of children... although she could see herself being an incredible aunt. Perhaps one day, when she was more settled in her career, she would revisit the idea of children. And they would never be forced into becoming an entertainer. She would never treat them like an investment.

Her childhood had been busy, a whirlwind of auditions and sets and being told to act like an adult, if only so that she could be taken seriously be her ‘colleagues’. There had been some who had tried their best, some actors and make-up artists and hair stylists and assistants who had tried so hard to allow her the freedom of being a child, but that never lasted long. There had been times in her life where she’d longed for an older sibling, someone to treat her like a child without being demeaning or condescending, but in retrospect she figured it was good that her parents had only had the one child. God forbid they spread their particular brand of fuckery to a whole brood of children.

Turning her attention back to Spencer, Olive leaned back, sipping more of her latte. She tilted her head, taking in his words— he is the artsy type. She had thought so— he seemed like the type. Her intuition was finely tuned. “Depends on your definition of glamorous,” she began evasively, before sighing. “I’m the events coordinator of a small art gallery in Chelsea. It pays the bills, and I’m working towards getting a better position in a bigger gallery.” She delicately popped the final bite of her cookie into her mouth, chewing slowly. “Until then, I have to answer emails from incompetent fools who are unable to recognize the importance of noting down the allergens in a catered meal plan.”

            Her voice, telling him that he could take that seat, pulled Samual out of his frantic searching. He had his sketchbook and tablet tucked under one arm, croissant in the connected hand, and a cappuccino in the other. The tablet had only just started to slip under his arm and he was already squeezing as hard as he could to keep it there.                Samual had been beginning to regret going to get a coffee after his consultation. Even if he felt like he deserved it because he got the idea that this client’s going to be a bit picky and particular, which was fine. Whatever he makes goes on their skin. Period. They need to be happy with it. But that just means that he doesn’t get to do as much as he wants with it. They’ll tell him exactly what they want. No wiggle room. No way to adjust it to make it look better or compose it so it sits better on their skin.             “Thank you!” he says as he hastily sets his things down and pulls the seat out. “Sorry to intrude! I almost lost everything!” Samual laughed and rubbed at the back of his neck a little as he set his tablet to the side and got situated. “I can drag the chair away too, ‘f you’d rather be alone. That’s fine too.” She looked like she was working. Sam didn’t want to hurt her productivity at all. 

— ⭒ Olive Boyd ⭒ —

Olive eyed the sketchbook and tablet in the man’s hands— and the croissant and cappuccino. That— that was a lot, and a part of her couldn’t help but feel glad that she’d managed to offer the seat before he had dropped everything. The tablet was settled very precariously, and even she had to wince at the idea of dropping a tablet.

She waved away his thanks and his concerns, before gesturing grandly to the seat across from her. “I don’t mind at all. I’m not waiting for anyone, and as long as you don’t spill that coffee, we won’t have any problems.” Her words were accompanied with a warm smile as she crossed her legs once more. “I’m done for the day anyways. I’m just here to eat my cookie and drink my coffee.”

The hustle and bustle of the café had served as wonderful background music, but now that she was done with working, she was far more aware of how hectic the place had gotten. It was one thing to notice the influx of customers, it was another thing to notice the speed at which everyone was moving. She internally shook her head— she should relax. “Are you an artist?”

-

Dogs can be such a nuisance.

The barking is enough to distract her long enough to spot the lone free seat. Dogs and men, Bee muses watching the woman outside be tossed about reminding her precisely why she was a cat person. Thanking the barista for taking her order, a five is dropped into the tip jar as she sighs regarding the cheap little number held carefully between her fingers. Walking through the cafe, her gaze skims around the area looking for an open table.

You can have that seat, if you’d like.

It draws her attention away from the pitiful woman outside and the abysmal lack of tables. Pretty little redhead– “Oh Olive.” Now her mood tips towards subtle delight as she drops into the chair with little hesitation. “It’s been ages, what– months? Years now?” Dropping her number onto the edge of the table for the server to find, Bee brushes back her hair from her shoulders.

“Oh but I do so miss our parties.”

— ⭒ Olive Boyd ⭒ —

Olive’s eyes widened, easily recognizing the woman who had so gracefully slid into the seat opposite her. This one random act of kindness had turned into an unexpected reunion. It was odd. Perhaps she should have been more opposed to seeing someone from the days she’d preferred to forget, but there were some people from her more reckless days that she would not mind seeing again. 

And the parties had been legendary. “It has been a while.” Her fingers curled around her mug, before she smirked, sardonically raising her cup in a small toast. “To the messes we left in all those mansions, and the tabloid journalists who owe their careers to our wild nights.” She took a big gulp of her coffee, enjoying the burn. “God knows how much it cost trying to get red wine out of white fur rugs,” she muttered after swallowing.

Her fingers deftly broke off another piece of her cookie, before popping the morsel into her mouth. “How have you been?” She leaned back in her chair, settling herself comfortably as she cradled her coffee. “Still giving people hell?”

☆✮☆

With a coffee in one hand and a pastry in the other, Stella was looking around the café looking for a seat and was about to give up when she catches someone gaze. A someone who is very nice to offer the open seat at her table. “Really?” Stella offers a smile, hoping to convey how much she appreciated it.  “Thanks- for a second there I was worried I’d have to go back to the counter to ask them to pack this to-go.”

She settles into the seat, placing her coffee and food on the table. A quick glance is given to the front door as even more people filter into the establishment. Stella turns back to face the redhead, “It’s so busy in here. I can’t imagine it’s been easy to focus on what you’re working on,” she says, nodding towards the woman’s laptop. Unfortunately, it seems like cafes aren’t always a safe haven for productivity.

— ⭒ Olive Boyd ⭒ —

The brunette’s genuine appreciation pulled a smile onto Olive’s face, and she settled back into the chair, taking another languid sip of her coffee. “It’s not that difficult. Eventually, everything just becomes background noise.” All the sounds bled together into one, and it made it easier for her to just focus on whatever she had to do.

“Besides, I haven’t been doing any serious work. Just the smaller things, like answering emails.” Cafés were the best place to answer emails. If she answered them at work, there was a chance she’d run into the recipient— and that wasn’t always fun. “It also wasn’t this bad when I first came in.” Now, walking looked hazardous.

                     Jenny was trying to keep it together. She was supposed to be meeting a date here, at the cafe. She’d taken the day off and even dressed up a little more than usual. She didn’t show. Jenny had sat there for a good fifteen minutes before the ‘sorry I can’t make it, maybe next time’ text came through. So she bought herself a nice, big slice of chocolate cake, and a latte. When she turned back around to take her seat again, someone had already claimed it.                        One disappointment after the other.                        She looked appropriately distressed. Or lost, at least. Hands full, bag slung over one shoulder. Until someone blessedly offered the seat across from them. “Really? Oh thank god, my arms were getting tired!” Jenny moved to pull the seat out with her foot and was careful to sit down and not disturb the other woman’s work space.                      “Thank you so much! I was about ready to cry!” 

— ⭒ Olive Boyd ⭒ —

Olive had no trouble believing the brunette’s words. Her emotions were written all over her face. She smiled, tugging her laptop closed to herself as she gestured to the rest of the table. “The table is yours— mostly.” Her pen laid on the table, rolling awkwardly, and she was quick to pick it up, returning it to her purse. 

Her phone buzzed, and her screen lit up with a text. Dennis had forgotten the keys to the storage room. Again. She rolled her eyes dramatically, before quickly sending off a reply— how did that man constantly forget where his keys, and where the spare keys are? After a moment, she shook her head before glancing back up at her table-mate.

“Is everything alright? Don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you really want a night in with ‘The Notebook’ and some wine.” 

Unprodigal Daughter — Alanis Morissette

Arthur likes this coffee shop in particular because their blueberry muffins have an oatmeal crumble on top. And because it’s got cozy armchairs that are nice to read in, but mostly because of the muffins. He was hoping to snag one of said armchairs today but as he looks around, book tucked under his arm and both hands full with his muffin on a plate and his mug of tea, he’s dismayed to find that all the armchairs are taken. All of the tables too, he realizes. Arthur’s hoping to find a seat that’ll be available soon when the redheaded stranger speaks to him.

“Really? Thank you so much,” he replies with a grateful smile, shuffling across the space to take the seat across from her. He’s careful to set his dishes and his book down closer to his edge of the table to avoid disturbing her. “I don’t know why it’s so busy in here today,” he huffs as he drops into the seat, “but I promise I’ll be quiet and I’ll try my best not to bother you. D’you have enough space?” 

— ⭒ Olive Boyd ⭒ —

Olive smiled at the consideration being shown, before tugging her own laptop a little more towards her. There was plenty of space left on this round table for the two of them, and his dishes needed to take up more space than her laptop did. After all, she could just set the computer in her lap. She glanced at the items in his hand— oatmeal crumble? Interesting.

She waved away his concerns with a loose hand, leaning back in her chair. “I have plenty of space, and if you need more, I can always put my laptop in my lap.” She took a languid sip of her latte, her eyes wandering over the influx of customers. “Oh, and I think one of the machines at the Starbucks down the street broke, so everybody has flocked here like lost birds.” Olive was 90% sure that all of America ran on coffee and money.

The thumping bass was loud and all-encompassing, filling her ears and her mind as she jumped in time. A cup of something was in her hands, raised high above her like Lady Liberty with her torch— or maybe it had slipped from her fingers ages ago, and she hadn’t noticed. All she noticed were the people swirling around her, and the music, and all the dancing, the bouncing, the singing. It felt like freedom.

Alcohol coursed through her veins, swirling through her and making her smile and laugh, leaning heavily on her colleagues acquaintances friends as they drank one more three more five more shots. Was this what happiness felt like? Sweat sticking to her body, lights so bright that her head spun, raucous laughter drilling into her ears? Maybe not, but in those moments she felt like she’d found her Garden of Eden.

4 am saw her stumbling out the gates of a mansion— and she had no fucking clue where she was. Not that it mattered. Her heels made her sway, thin points barely enough to balance the teenaged girl’s body, but still she walked, far more gracefully than most would imagine. Practice makes perfect.

Cameras flashed in her face, and most days she would smile, but today was a bad day. Today, with the sun barely beginning to peak out into the horizon, her conscience decided to rear its head, berating her for her choices and decisions. She simply wasn’t prepared to face herself. In the deepest corners of her mind, she could admit that the choices she’d been making recently weren’t smart, but they were all choices of her own, which was more than she could say for any of the other decisions she’s made in her life. And yet, she warred with it all.

A hand smacked out, and a gasp rippled through the crowd as a camera smashed into the ground. Her eyes tracked its movements dispassionately ($5000, gone in a flash) before a giggle escaped her. “Oops. Sorry.” Insincerity dripped from her bones.

The driveway erupted into noise, and something vindictive filled her being. She had spent so damn long being the perfect little doll for everybody around her. It was thrilling, to see their hatred for once. In retrospect, perhaps the vodka had given her a boost of adrenaline and foolhardiness. She’d forgotten what it looked like when people ditched their false smiles and cooing for something real. Her heel came down decisively, crushing the camera. Gleeful satisfaction filled her as glass shattered under her foot. 

The roar of the people around her faded into nothingness as she strode away before slipping into the backseat of her waiting car. In that moment, their words meant nothing to her. She was idly aware of the outrage, the videos, the pictures, and the threats, but she didn’t care. And as the car sped away, she turned to meet the eyes of the crowd, and she smirked.

✑ 𝐒𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐫 𝐐𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐧;

    Crowded cafes are definitely on his list of unbearable circumstances – mostly because he tends to use places like this to get work done, which requires more brainpower than he can muster at the best of times but also because, like days such as this, it’s almost impossible to snag a seat. One positive that Spencer hadn’t considered though, is the prospect of attractive women offering up a spare seat to him just as he’s mid-way through glaring as some wandering kid with sticky-looking fingers that almost toddles right under his feet.

“Yeah? Thanks,” he accepts immediately, waiting like he’s at a crosswalk for the kid to pass before placing his coffee down and pulling out the chair. “You know, I always forget summer break is a thing,” Spencer explains to the woman, eyes following the grimy-handed kid as his mother escorts him out of the building, before his attention returns to the stranger again. “Or school in general, really. Then every so often I’ll spot some obnoxious private school uniform and think oh, didn’t need to remember that nightmare.” He rolls his eyes, although they’re bright with the soft smile that carries from his mouth, kind of exhausted but easing up at the sight of another family (of four this time) making their exit, the cafe quietening just a touch more.

“Sorry– I didn’t catch your name,” he says although he knows it’s only because he started musing the minute his ass hit his seat. Lifting his mug in a vague toast, he adds, “I’m Spencer.”

— ⭒ Olive Boyd ⭒ —

The man in front of her was a whirlwind of energy, and he was a welcome distraction. She took a sip of her coffee, nodding as he spoke. That explained the influx of customers. She let out a small hum of understanding, before quickly popping another piece of her cookie into her mouth. The chocolate chips needed to be savored. An easy laugh escapes her at his comments, brightening up her face as she deftly scoots her chair closer to the window, moving out of the way of a mother chasing after a rambunctious boy. His eyes screamed with mischief... he must be a fucking handful.

She raised her mug, mirroring his salute with a smaller one of her own. “I didn’t give it yet, but I’m Olive.” Both hands cupped her mug as she lowered it to her lap, and one of her rings clinked against the porcelain. Her phone buzzed in her pocket, but she paid it little mind. She was off for the day, and the incoming email was definitely Mr. Tucker providing confirmation that the catering for the next cocktail party was locked down. If it wasn’t— if it wasn’t, then they’d just have to make do with some other alternative. Maybe a local business? It was a thought she’d return to when she was actually working. 

Olive turned her attention back to the stranger in front of her— Spencer. “What brings you here at this time of day, if you don’t mind me asking?”

A slender finger traced the rim of the porcelain cup as her other hand deftly finished and sent a final email. Hopefully, after this set of negotiations, everything would be settled and a new selection of sculptures will finally be shown at the gallery. The gallery really did need some variety. She broke off a piece of her cookie, chewing thoughtfully before leaning back and rolling her shoulders. As she glanced around, she took note of how crowded the café was. Her eyes caught the gaze of a wandering stranger, and so she gestured vaguely towards the seat in front of her.

“You can have that seat, if you’d like.”