samar khan

SHE secretly indulged in the feeling of it being day one. Astrid vividly remembered their first day one– selfishly. Her eyes rolled back, fighting off a cheeky smile. ❛ Day one and a decade later, ❜ she huffed, taking a longer drag. She shamelessly wondered if his decade had been any better than hers, but, considering the circumstances, he seemed to be doing just fine. ❛ Do you think you can handle another sixty-five of pure coincidences? ❜ although, she wouldn’t blame him if he couldn’t. He had his fair share of Astrid already.

She tapped the cigarette on the edge of the bench, lifting it up in offer to him. ❛ Oh– lighters come in handy for many, many things. They’re portable, they’re useful for office candles that I’m not supposed to have, they’d be great for any survival fires, and look, they even come in handy for your old smokes, ❜ Astrid looked down to observe her tweed outfit, grabbing the lighter again and burned off any straggling strings to prove a point. ❛ Number four: useful for fashion emergencies! ❜ she laughed, temporarily forgetting about any pressure that nagged her thoughts. 

She looked over at him, nodding her head. ❛ I have to be, ❜ she mustered the conclusion of being a fighter long ago. Astrid rubbed her temple, sighing the remaining stress away as she heard him. They still had much in common, including the feeling of being defeated today. She couldn’t handle it. 

❛ Oh, bollocks, I believe we both deserve to have a better day, ❜ she said, looking around the cheery park. People were laughing, enjoying, and she increasingly grew envious. She had a few ideas of how today could be better–– but she was committed to remaining sober. ❛ Are you up for making it a good day, Samar? ❜ the ‘with me’ part was silent. She just wanted to run away for a little and somehow she couldn’t think of anyone better to revel in. 

His body became a vessel, filling with a cocktail made of bitters and honey, dashes akin to acid snaking down, trying to beat the run of a sweetness that had an equal shot of making him sick by the time it reached the pit of his stomach. A decade felt so extensive when spelled out, but all that time couldn't equal some days. He wondered if it ever could, even if a decade could be doubled, tripled, until there wasn't any sand left in the hourglass at all. Would it be better if there was a hand to reach out and flip it over sixty-five times, only to correct it after every one? He couldn't answer, clogging behind the corners of his jaw, making it shift, before he could finally voice something more important. "Could you?"

Who would have thought fire could smooth the waters? He watched the flame lap at the threads of her dress with a furrowed brow, an instinct to keep a close watch, but she had only her point to prove. "Nothing does get in your way," he told her, observation, maybe warning, maybe admiration. His hand tipped underneath her own, raising the lighter away from her. "Don't set yourself on fire because of it, yes?"

Gently, his thumb released her wrist last, returning to his side of the bench, if only in touch, letting the eyes do the rest. He could feel himself staring at her, letting her words sink in, weighing where he was, not just in the park but in life. If this was day one, they were entitled to a day, not minutes.

"Take a walk with me," he offered, already standing up, ready to venture on. "We're not far from somewhere you probably haven't gone in a long time." Perhaps in a whole decade.

Someone like you. Rune inevitably grinned; he was often called out on his privilege, so often that it’d ceased to bother him years ago. “No, you’re absolutely right. Glass houses and all that,” Rune mused, gaze unbroken but likewise more curious than it was anything else. “I’d like to think not being born with what I have now makes some kind of difference, but maybe that’s too much to hope for.” Rune shrugged airily, unbothered.

“But, no. Suffice it to say, my current opinion towards politics is… complicated.” A near-hilarious understatement, even as Rune hid his own amusement behind a slow sip of his drink. “Interest waning, one might say. Slightly disillusioned, considering that nasty business that hit the public eye recently.” Rune raised his eyebrows slightly, smiling. “I’d be curious to hear your commentary on it, but it also feels rude to ask you to talk shop at a party, so. Don’t feel obligated.”

Does it make a difference? Maybe. Too hard to tell when they've only just met, but judging in groups from those born into money versus working for it there's usually something that separates the two. "I think it depends on what you do with it that makes the real difference," Samar finally answered. "The fact that you hope it makes a difference at all should tell you something." Some donate. Some build casinos. An interesting circumstance to find yourself in, maybe less than what was to follow.

Samar's head tilted up slightly from the change in subject, an instinctual movement towards armor. An element of political suicide wafted between them suddenly, a tinge of something even more deadly if maneuvered the wrong way. He could think of the politician himself, how he'd wrangle his way through it with a trained air, but that wasn't Samar's role, nor could it fit him, not in the current definition of what a politician was.

"Are you sure you work for the casino and not for The Sun?" He looked over at him as he took a small sip of his drink, setting it down soon after, finger pressing to the cut crystal. "Truthfully?" he began again after a moment. "I think it gave insight on how things have been running in the past."

SHE grew increasingly despaired as the bottles slipped between her fingers. The act of independence no longer once he offered a hand. Cleo looked up at him with doe-eyes in admiration to his lack of judgment. ❛ The pickled hot peppers, please, ❜ she kindly requested. It took everything out of her not to kindly request him to hurry up for the lonesome cart she left in line. ❛ And– can you grab those artichokes while you’re at it? ❜ since, it seemed so feasible for someone like him. 

❛ You’d think they’d have a system for people like… me, ❜ she said, motioning towards her legs. ❛ I’m sure I’m not the first one to climb the shelves around here or in the world, in general. ❜

Pickled hot peppers. He nodded in understanding before reaching over her head, only to have another request come by the time they were lowered within her reach. A brow arched before returning to the shelf, hand again wrapping around another jar. "They're disgusting, but that's up to you," he muttered, glancing at her, before her small stash was hers to accept.

"Are you comparing your height to a disability?" he asked, half-genuinely as he tried to guess how tall she could be. A rough guess told him she couldn't be more than a foot shorter than him, but that wasn't particularly in her favor. It certainly hadn't helped her any here. "I think the system is using a ladder."

“Of course I have, but then that raises a new question: who decides who has merit? I have a feeling things would not be as drastically different as the idealistic would like to believe. Money always talks louder than morals” And she should know that well. “Nor is it really mine, but really Eve would make sins of the mother make a lot more sense; but no, it’s still just sins of the father”

“You can send me a list of the exceptions.” A napkin slipped from his pocket, one from the bar to hold a glass under, held out for her to take. “This should be more than enough to hold all of them.”

“Oh how droll” With a sweet smile and a roll of her eyes, Safiye takes the napkin from him, producing a pen from her clutch for the evening and using the bag as a table to scribble down a singular name. “Here you go: the only exception that matters here”

And written on the napkin? Safiye Durmaz-Howard.

"You're proving my point," he informed her with little shock value attached. She didn't get it. She truly didn't. Who knew if she ever could? The view from an ivory tower made everyone else look like an ant, no matter if they were holding up the magnifying glass to catch them all on fire in the process. "What are you exactly arguing? Equal rights for sinning? Didn't you say money spoke louder in that department?"

His eyes crawled to catch her movements, watching from the corners of his vision as she wrote before his hand received the napkin back. The solitary name stared back at him for the moment that he allowed it to sink in. Safiye Durmaz-Howard. It was a name that became split in half as Samar folded it, pinching the crease to sharpen the length of it before it was made to absorb a water ring left behind.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“I think that might be a bit cynical, even if it does hold some level of truth to it.” Marielle offered him a raised eyebrow. “Though for all that I can say about Graham Goldstein being overrated, I doubt he’d be the sort to attempt to spread propaganda -” she held up a hand, “though I imagine that to this, you’d say ‘but it’s always the ones you might least expect.” His next comment brought a smile to her lips. “That is something we certainly have in common.” Another nod, “I did say the ballet - and I used to be, though now I work behind the scenes - choreography - though I suppose that doesn’t take away from whether or not I am a dancer, does it? Just changes where the output of my art goes. Do you enjoy the ballet?”

The tiniest of movements rippled through Samar's brows, a subtle, though borrowed, level of acceptance. Somewhere along the lines maybe he had crossed over to cynicism, thinking it had been convincingly dressed as optimism for change all this time. How Graham Goldstein factored into the equation wasn't something that held enough weight to tip either side of the scales, simply based on how little he knew of him personally. He could offer her a vague smile, short-lived but there. "Sometimes. Sometimes they're not as good at hiding their intentions as they think they are." He held very little elaboration, a beat of silence on his side before he listened on.

"I'm indifferent towards it personally," he answered as they reached the bar, taking his seat next to one that was meant for her to claim. "I've heard it's not easy," he went on, more complimentary than his last statement, though still wondering where her place was in an event like this. "Is the casino a patron?"

➜ open starter for anyone!

It’s take your kid to work day! Except it’s take your PM to work day!

Congratulations, you’ve been selected as the lucky individual to show the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom around your work. He will shadow you for a day, after which dinner will be served at the PM’s private residence at 10 Downing Street. Oh, and by the way, you can’t say no. <3

Some sparkly-eyed brand-spanking-new intern for the PR team seemed to be full of brilliant fucking ideas, looking to be the next big thing in relationships management. How they’d managed to pitch this as something they should do was beyond August, but since he happened to owe a favor or two to his PR manager, he’d thought it was best to get this over with to prove that the rat bastard who came up with this idea should clearly be fired. It seemed patronising to request (read: force) citizens to have the prime minister fumbling around their workplace all for a few articles in papers nobody even reads anymore. But, since someone clearly thought it was Pulitzer-prize worthy material, here he was, with a security detail and a reporter, showing up to some poor bastard’s place at 7:30am sharp, as he had been instructed.

‘Dress appropriately,’ had been the command from his team, but without more instruction the definition of appropriately was hardly clear to him. Meagan had stuffed him into a white shirt, over which he wore a woolen hunting sweater, the lapels of which scratched uncomfortably against his freshly-shaved neck. He had, for the first time in a decade, black jeans and some walking shoes on. August hadn’t dared look himself in the mirror before he left, fearing he’d have to witness the suburbanite nightmare his wife had made him into. This was probably what she dreamed of every night— the thought made him shudder.

He rang the doorbell, which sent an 8-bit rendition of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy ringing in the house. How cliche, August thought, and for a moment pondered how he might go about banning all doorbells in the country. As funny as the thought was, he had little time to think about it before the door was swung open and he was greeted by a face looking about as excited as he was feeling himself.

“Hello!” August greeted, cheerful as ever, “May we come in? You have a lovely home.” He didn’t wait much for an invitation, and instead let himself and his little entourage in. “Now, my team thought it’d be best I go into this entirely blind, so I have no idea what we’re doing today. What is it you do for a living?”

The last person he expected to see when he opened his flat's door was the country's Prime Minister. It might as well have been a fever dream seeing him in the flesh, flanked by assistants he had seen before, surrounding him at parties like a pair of gnats. In this political fish bowl world of theirs, it wasn't a hard guess to make that they were more handlers than anything else. What was hard to guess was why he was here.

There wasn't much of a choice given. Samar's door was pushed further in, not by his own hand, but by the first assistant that his eyes had landed on, and by then he had just simply let his hands fall off the door altogether. "It's a rental property," he addressed, straying away from the word home, especially in this conversation.

"Before I answer that"--the door clicked closed behind him, no matter how much he wanted his new guests to be on the other side of it--"may I ask what brings you here exactly?"

LATELY, work kept landing Astrid in interesting places. But right now, she was no longer mad where she was. 

Something about him made her feel still. All the noise that was filling her head was suddenly gone being at his side. Astrid never understood why, and even now, how it remained. A part of her felt unmasked by him in every encounter, fighting the urge to dump her mind as she once did. ❛ This’ll be day zero! ❜ Astrid demanded said. Time would tell if he was right, although, she could guess this wasn’t in their best interest. 

❛ It was just a question, ❜ she said. A silent truce to keeping his best interest. If he didn’t, she’d manage another few hours before she got home. She just had a feeling she would be lucky asking. Her frown curved up into a smile, nodding her head. ❛ They come in handy, you know, ❜ as if that was the reason she always had one on her. Smoking was her vice when drinking wasn’t present. Astrid shrugged any inconvenience away, grabbing the small sense of euphoria from his finger tips. She followed suit, quickly lighting it and taking a drag. The silence that sat between them was comfortable, until he spoke. The lump in her throat came back and she habitually took another pull. She shook her head at him, letting out a sigh. ❛ No, I’ll be alright, ❜ she tried to convince herself. 

❛ How are you? Rub your good day in on mine. I swear I’ll feel better channeling happier energy. ❜ Also known as her coping mechanism. 

"It's day one," he amended evenly with eyes sliding over to her to make his point clear. Not one thing could pass him. Maybe it was just with her. Maybe it was becoming his own habit. None of it really could count unless it could make it to that sixty-six day threshold. Day one was useless without the other sixty-five to tail after it, but To just get one more might be one too many to be allowed, to watch for, to want.

"They come in handy for what else?" he asked, keeping his tone the way it was, even in its questioning state. "I haven't heard of many molotov cocktails being thrown about." It depended on the day if that was a good thing or a bad thing. He could look on the cautiously optimistic side for the moment, all while he could watch his last cigarette to his name be lit up by her hand. Somewhere there was some metaphor there, but not one that was meant to be acknowledged. It'll turn to ash soon enough, and that will be the end of it.

"You will be," he finally told her while he leaned forward, forearms against his knees, hands of his loosely threaded together. She didn't believe it. He could tell. She had a way to her. Corner of her jaw becoming a little more rigid than usual when she was on the edge.

"What makes you think I'm having a good day?" Another look over, head tilted at her, catching how the smoke flew from her lips. "I've been better," he eventually admitted, looking straight again. "I think that should make you feel better, anyhow."

“No. No, they do not.” Rune laughed a slight, lilting laugh and nodded. “The pros and cons of attracting a crowd with deep pockets. They’re quite keen to open their purse, but the protests come quick when they’re losing money faster than they’re winning it.” Rune shrugged, with the same air of ‘what can you do’ as earlier. “They always seem to know what they’re getting into, but balk as soon as they don’t receive that special treatment they’re used to.”

Attention trailing back to his companion as they leave that particular unpleasantness behind, the man revealed a different sort of disappointment: he worked for the mayor. Not that Rune let that disappointment show, instead raising his eyebrows and smiling as if impressed; the curiosity, at least, was genuine. “None taken. The mayor drags his political advisors to parties against their will? Does the esteemed Mr. Espino think you need to get out more, or does he really need advising twenty-four-seven?”

Samar absorbed what was being said, letting it swirl around for awhile before he mirrored the same attitude as the one to bring it to light. His lips shifted before speaking, as if taking in another account of the person himself before adding his own words to the mix. "Do you think that's strange to hear someone like you saying that?" Between the suit he wore and the family who owned the casino he worked for, a disconnect dawned on him, looking at it from an outside perspective, more curious than damning. Hopefully it would be taken as such.

At least, on his own side of things, he could find some humor in what was posed to him, his job, his boss. "It was suggested, not forced, to be fair," he fixed before he took a sip for the rest. "I don't guess you’re a strong supporter, then? Or is it politics in general?"

LOCATION: Supermarket shoppin’ prob Tesco’s

STARTER: open to everybody!

BEING next in line was a relief–– until she noticed she was missing her very necessary favorite peppers in her trolley. Cleo turned to the person behind her reminding them of her spot before she ran down the aisle to look for her can of gold. There they were in their pickled glory– on the top shelf, of course. Cleo was ready to expense all forms of independence since her pride refused any sort of help. First, she climbed the shelf, quickly stopping at the sound of glass clinking together. The loud machines beeping up front reminded her of her place in line and she couldn’t be that person to create chaos… at this moment in time. She turned wearily, ❛ Would you mind sparing some height? ❜ she asked the only other person in the aisle. She internally screamed at her state of defeat. ❛ I’m obviously rubbish at being tall today. ❜

Bare essentials. Samar lived by himself, most of it outside of his apartment. Late-nights and early mornings kept him out of the kitchen, but it had been a whole month since the last time he had stepped foot in a supermarket. The bread on the counter had finally been laid to rest in the bin where it belonged, green and half-eaten. A small fridge made cavernous by its emptiness was the final push.

Something less perishable might have worked better. A jar of jam was in his hand, plucked from the jaws of death that seemed to be inevitable by the girl starting to climb. If she hadn't asked for help, he would have offered anyways. She had only beaten him to it for the fact she seemed so determined to do it herself.

"It seems so," he agreed, a look down at her in their contrast of height before he moved closer. "Which one did you want?"

“You might be in the minority.” Marielle raised an eyebrow and offered him a small smile. “At least, according to other news sources and such.” She sighed, for a moment. “I also want to be clear that I would not judge you, were you to think about that - but I suppose going with the most popular voice for news also does make sense…” she trailed off as they walked toward the bar. “That is true, we certainly do all start that way.” She shrugged, “one of my more frequent patrons at the ballet told me I should check it out. I am not part of any sort of dynasty, no. How about yourself? Do you belong to this dynasty?”

"Unfortunately," he let languish for awhile, a silent breath taken in to sweep it off before it was shortly pushed out, a sardonic reflex of the lungs. "Does it make sense?" His turn to face her, a curious and questioning look for her. "That's how propaganda spreads." Misinformation. Bias. Ignorance. Following only the popular opinion silences the opposition, for better or worse. But that didn't make polite conversation. It rarely did. For someone who had so far shown him nothing but it, his lips pursed, redirecting. "They're not my type to marry into, no." As if what he had already stated didn't show the reason why. Another beat of a pause, brows knitting together as he rewound her words. "Did you say the ballet? Are you a dancer?"

ASTRID groaned, shaking her head at herself. She knew she could truly never escape her past and she wondered what she did to deserve the constant reminder of Samar. The last thing she needed today was to be sitting with him on a bench but a part of her was glad he was the person on the other end today. ❛ It’s only a habit after 66 days, ❜ she told him. She crossed her arms across her chest as she people-watched, secretly hoping they were all having a worse day than her. She could automatically guess Samar was with her presence and it selfishly made her feel a little better. ❛ Which reminds me of your little habit once upon a time ago–– do you happen to have a cigarette? ❜ she asked. She gave him a sheepish smile, shrugging her shoulders at him. She couldn’t help but laugh, hoping he knew what he was saying. ❛ Probably when I was 3 years old, Samar. It’s been in abundance since. I’m sure you know what I’m talking about, ❜ a vague mention in honor of his role spent with her. ❛ It’s just one of those days. ❜

He tried not to smile, a tightening feeling knotting up in the muscle of his jaw to keep his lips still. His head turned off to the side for a moment, eyes seemingly following someone walking by, brown shopping bag, toy dog yapping on a leash, all slowly replaced by the return of Astrid's profile. Neutrality rebalanced. "Right. I'll keep track of the days for you," he noted before a sip of his coffee was taken, a mouth swallowed up without the help of a tight leash, like that dog that made all that noise, bringing attention to nothing at all.

The cup was barely drawing down before Samar's brow arched at her, peering at her from the plastic rim. Had to be a particularly bad day if she was trying to bum a cigarette from /him./ All she had to do was catch his eyes for him to tell her all the same. "This feels like a test of temptation," he told her before he heard her laugh, words not knowing what side they belonged to, only that they had already conceded.

"Do you still have a lighter in your purse?" His fingers had traded cup for wallet, pulled out from his pocket, peeling open the folds to pluck one last cigarette, the last from a pack ages ago. "I can't promise the quality. You might taste more leather than tobacco," he warned as he held it out for her, a little crimped at the end, wrinkles in the paper, a tale of its age like any other thing.

"Do you want to talk?" About her day. About the troubles. Anything. "Or did you only want to set something on fire?"

STARTER: @samarxkhan​​

LOCATION: Regent’s Park

TODAY was deemed a disaster since before she had gotten into work. She couldn’t believe how backwards today was proving to be but it happened in show-biz, also known as The Times. She needed a moment away from the doomed paper in order to think of a game plan in times like these. Her casual stroll through Regent’s Park became increasingly irritating from how busy it was. She was naive to think there wouldn’t be a lunch rush but she truly did not expect for every bench to be taken up. Her eyes lit up at the sight of a half-empty spot, almost rushing over to her saving grace until she saw its other half filled with the one and only, Samar. Astrid stopped in her tracks as she stared at him for a moment before she let out a long defeated sigh. She took the open seat and her body basically melted next to his.

❛ I’m in a mood, ❜ she openly warned him. ❛ I hope this seat wasn’t taken because I’m not sure I can get up right now. ❜

If Samar had fallen back into smoking, a cloud of it would have surrounded him, taking up the space others may have used to pray for answers instead of running through a pack in hopes of finding them alone. What he had left was a cup of coffee to his side, the stirrer that had mixed in a pack of sugar being twirled between his fingers, the feeling of missing something vital already in the bloodstream before the drink. Tag it as paranoia, or call it an obsession, but how could a city-wide blackout not be taken as some warning? The treaty is brought to light for all of London to plunge in darkness? Besides who did it, there could only be left one other pressing question: who was the warning for?

His fingers paused for a second, black straw held mid-turn, while his eyes met those of another face. The warning was felt before it was even spoken. "You're making this a habit," he told her as he moved the cup off of the bench, another part of the seat for her to claim. No complaint. Observation. Take up his space. Keep what's hers. "When was the last time you weren't in a mood?" 

Any residual tension in Rune’s shoulders unspooled as the onlooker wisely chose neutrality, and to sweep whatever unpleasantness had just been witnessed largely under the rug. “It is fun, until people try to take advantage of our hospitality. But as long as everyone behaves…”

Rune shrugged, leaning one elbow on the counter and casually sizing the stranger up with a muted smile. The statement wasn’t a threat until he made it one, and this man hadn’t given him any reason to make it one.

Besides, he was very well dressed and undeniably handsome, with dark waves of hair and an exquisite jacket to rival Rune’s own; if there was something Rune could appreciate, it was an impeccable sense of fashion. “So, anything in particular bring you to the Red Rose this evening?” Rune asked with an obvious curiosity over the rim of his champagne flute. “Other than a preference to be out and about over staying home and handing out candy to kids.”

Samar's jaw shifted slowly, the speed gradually slumping as conscious thought shook hands with that survival part of the brain. It made his head nod at first, one single movement before the lips parted. "The house always wins, yes?" Because doesn't it always to keep it fun? For the Prince of Wales, he could afford some latitude, eyes focusing over the other's shoulder to see if there would be any further movement before centering back on him. "I suppose some don't take no for an answer very well."

Like he tacitly suggested, though, there wasn't anything to see there, and Samar shifted his seat more towards the bar instead of any doorway. "Something of a business trip," he answered before taking a beat, weighing what could easily be found on LinkedIn even without his cooperation. "I'm a policy advisor for the mayor," he explained with a shrug. "I'd rather have the candy," he confessed before adding one more part. "No offense."

“Yes, well, that is how one gets on air, isn’t it?”  She offered a shrug. “We as a species are rather inclined to gravitate towards beauty, ergo, should someone be conveniently beautiful, they are more likely to be hired by places where employees looking good brings in customers, viewers, what have you…” Marielle nodded, “a glass of wine sounds lovely.” She began to walk toward the bar. “I don’t usually drink much, unless it’s for a social function.” She offered him a smile. “You’re still awfully kind for someone who doesn’t even know me.”

"That sounds cynical," he noted. Realistic, but cynical. Wasn't he becoming the expert in the art? "I promise you that the last thing I had on my mind when watching Russia take a turn is how beautiful Graham Goldstein is." He walked beside her, dodging the chance to rub shoulders with Armani and Gucci, every step closer to getting to the bar where at least everyone had a seat to stay at. "We all start as strangers," he went on, vague mirroring of the smile he was given before it slipped down out of habit. "What brings you here, by the way? Are you part of the Liddell dynasty?"

“I don’t see where you could be pulling that from at all, Samar, honestly. Have you been drinking tonight?” Maybe the concern in her voice was a little exaggerated but it was still there. And it was genuine at least a little. “The good should be passed on, the bad? That should be left by the wayside. And have you ever noticed that it’s always the sins of the father, never the sins of the mother. Funny thing that”

“Some are, but since when has it ever been a good idea to tar everyone with the same brush?”

He could hold his own expression internally, but the eyes were those windows to the soul as he looked at her, a sharpened exasperation etched into the panes. "Have you heard of a meritocracy?" he asked her, side-stepping around what he had balled up and tossed straight from her mouth. "It might help you in understanding." Though, from experience, it wasn't something he was counting on for Safiya. "I thought that was what Eve was for, but it's not my religion to know." Not as though he practiced anything these days, anyways. He was merely subjected to hearing others' be used to excuse their own actions, even when it seemed like it went against the core beliefs they spoke so much of. What wasn't used in this world?

His lips pursed slightly, patiently taking their time, looking ahead into the crowd. The rich shaking hands with politicians. The middle classes invited to have their money sucked up at the card tables, funneled up. The poor simply locked out altogether, no vote, no voice. And around and around they go.

"You can send me a list of the exceptions." A napkin slipped from his pocket, one from the bar to hold a glass under, held out for her to take. "This should be more than enough to hold all of them."

“Money is the great decider these days, the world is changing” And however it changed, Safie was sure that she’d be content; be happy, be just as she is. She didn’t care if the policies supported by those she helped would hurt other, it was just a luck of the dice that lead her to here. “Why shouldn’t you get to pass it on if you’ve managed to achieve it?”

“The problem isn’t those who have, Samar -” The problem isn’t me, it never was. “- it’s those who make sure others have not” Everyone deserved a chance to climb, wasn’t that what she was doing after all? If only starting a few rungs above the masses.

"You must be a supporter of that line calling on the sins of the father by the same logic," Samar replied from some dead pit inside, located where past intersects present. Rotten spot, close to the heart, aching still from familial troubles. Even with it put to the side, he'd think the same. You shouldn't be allowed to pay your way to the top, but he wasn't in like company. He had already long come to terms with that. It explained why he paused to take a breath before responding to her last words.

"Do you think they're not the same people?"

“I figured it was a polite start of conversation, and perhaps something of a knee-jerk reaction, considering I was told when I was younger that saying sorry is not always the best route, unless of course it is one’s fault, then apologies should be given.” Marielle offered a small shrug. “Besides, I’ve heard that Graham Goldstein is not always the most pleasant in person. Charming enough, but a pretty face doesn’t necessarily mean worthy of being a fan, nor worthy of excessive admiration in general.” She pressed her lips together. “I’d love a drink. What would you order me, having just met me?”

He waited patiently. Good listener, absorbing every word with a silent face, free of the small twitches that expressions were made of. There was much to say for someone with seemingly no attachment for the news anchor. "A pretty face," he finally boomeranged back, comment beginning and ending with simply that, as if that was all the proof that was needed to support the argument without rubbing it in. "How about a glass of wine? Merlot?" he moved on, hand out to gesture towards the bar for her to take the first step. "I'm not a big drinker. Order what you want if you don't like it," he added. "I'll still pay."