Utterly Mysterious

Peter fails to hold onto the laugh that has been begging to escape him; good on his knees? A nice Catholic boy like him?! Just what was she implying?! He fakes a little outrage with a pair of raised brows and a shake of his head. If this were back home - if he were with the boys - his cheeks would be red by now, Christ, they’d have ripped him apart for that comment. But with her and in the company of jest and night life, her humour doesn’t bother him at all. If anything, he takes it as a compliment. Such was the curse of inheriting his looks from his mother’s side; Peter was an undoubted pretty boy, who had been reminded of such a fact during every single family get-together since he was eighteen.

“Hold on” He responds, surprised “ay, I may be prettier than some o’the guys you got peddlin’ on this strip, but I’m much better lyin’ down than I am on my knees.” The gangster’s back and forth with her encourages another chuckle; he’s surprised he’s even, really getting involved in this. Hell, it’s almost childish banter but nothing can really beat it. Not when the night is slow; when the weather is warm enough to sit in during the dark and the smell of the street good enough to bask in. 

“Who knows, babe; by the look of it, maybe y’got a life in peddlin’ ass” Peter shakes his head; it was never a comment he could see himself saying to another human being, but there it was. The Italian shakes his head, he takes a drag of the cigarette before him before he turns to face her sharp features properly.

“So - my uh-” he smirks “new pimp; y’gotta name?” 

“You talk t’God laying down?” Her earlier joke having been based on prayer-- usually done on bent knees, Angie’s startled by his retort and it shows in her chuckle and changing expression. If theirs had been a more serious conversation she would have considered the fact that she’d thought and mentally spoken many a prayer skywards while laid up in bed. Not to mention all the mini-prayers hastily spoken while standing upright-- everything from begging God not to let the rice burn to all the petty and sometimes superstitious needs that made a Catholic-Lite like herself cross themselves and send up a hurried missive for some divine assistance. None of it is considered-- not at the moment, when they’re each keeping the other grinning and amused.

What he follows that comment up with is a thought she’s entertained before; working as a procurer instead of, or maybe in addition to, a sex worker. It’s the legalities and their consequences that leave that possibility in the realm of dreams instead of a reality she truly pursues. The kind of trouble she could get into someday if her client is ever the wrong one-- like an undercover cop, is the kind of thing she can handle. She’s not afraid of a rap sheet or tainted record, and since it’d be her first offense, Angie knows she’s not staring down too harsh a sentence. Procurers had it different though. Cops and judges liked busting them and trumping up the charges, patting themselves on the back all the while for cleaning the streets of smut. It doesn’t matter to them that working boys and girls can be so much better off working in a small network instead of on their own. If she was ever brought down for helping another girl book steady work she’d get locked up for so much longer than just for doing the work herself. Angie thinks of it all but keeps it to herself for the sake of the light mood, just shaking her head lightly in time with his joke.

Consider it part starter call and hit the heart if you’d like a starter from an Angie, any Angie. If you have a preference, verse-wise, timeline, etc, then dump that preference in either my asks or IMs. ♥ If we had/have something established that went on hiatus with me when graduation happened, and you don’t mind me picking it back up, then please please please leave some kind of comment here. It can be a word, a letter, an asterisk, anything. I just don’t want to make the mistake of trying to pick-up or revive something that anyone has dropped. I understand that my unannounced disappearance is to blame, and I take responsibility for that. Also, I apologize.

;Modern Angelique Aesthetique.

You know you’ve made it to relationship status with Angie if she actually takes you home and lets you spend the night. You’re never going to catch her asleep in bed next to you-- never that, but it means plenty that you’ve been allowed in her personal sanctuary. However early you wake up, you’ll find that she’s been up before you, her paint looking fresh, mascara un-smudged, hair brushed and tamed into something loose but definitely styled. Given enough time, you’ll learn that this will never change. You never hear the alarm (she has to have one, doesn’t she?) that pulls her out of bed and towards her vanity; you simply adjust to waking in the mornings to the company of a put-together woman very attached to control over her appearance.

And if you wake up to the sounds of Elvis Crespo, Celia Cruz, or Oro Solido before nine a.m., then you know that it’s Saturday. Find Angie in the kitchen, sweeping and wiping and dancing as she does it. You know her to love J.Lo, Cardi B, and every other modern songstress that makes Latinx adjacent music, but cleaning on Saturdays means a throwback to the classics that she heard growing up-- the same songs she watched her mother clean their house to, long black hair wrapped up in a silk scarf before her hair appointment later in the day.

Angie isn’t usually a slave to routine, but Saturday mornings are strictly for this and this alone. It’s the day she skips breakfast in order to avoid it’s mess and fills up on coffee, cafe con leche, the bright red and yellow can of either Bustelo or Pilon sitting in her cabinets looking like they’ve been there since the beginning of time. When she offers you a cup you’ll find that it’s brewed strong but sweetened with condensed milk and the tiniest bit of sugar. Definitely a treat.