shinuuiih:
He shakes his head, once then again, bringing the tall glass of orange juice to his lips. It tastes strangely salty, too sour, but the mint leaf is a nice touch. The black cigarette he’d been idly smoking sits in the ashtray, only half burned, the scent of cloves lingering in the air. The plate of food in front of him is unfinished and he prods gently at the remaining grilled fish with his chopsticks. His appetite fluctuates all the time, sometimes he just can’t find the energy or interest to eat on a normal schedule, sometimes he’s just forgets about it.
“I was just thinking….” He’s distracted when a waitress stops by, cheerily asking how they’re finding everything and he obviously asks for all the desserts they have available, politely handing her his dinner plate.
“I was thinking we should go watch something.”
Her bafflement is only in the moment, a split-second spark, then release. Solji resolves to saying nothing as there’s nothing to be said—his sweet tooth impulse a force to be reckoned with, even when it's put against a prized chef's special. Disappointed maybe, but hardly surprised. When she turns her way: “I’m good, thank you.” On second thought: “Actually, can I get some ice for this please?"
The waitress soon leaves right after after, and she follows her path from the corner of her eye until she trails out of sight. An easy rhythm, one that can only come with practice. With purpose.
“Cool.” It's a familiar suggestion of his, one that draws the tiniest hint of a smile. She's no cinephile by any means, but there’s quiet appreciation for his enthusiasm nonetheless. “Yeah, okay.” Because there’s no real reason to say no. “Something old or new?”
