RUBIK’S CUBE

"Yeah - yeah, small island," he agrees with a little laugh, dipping his head and rubbing at the back of his neck. "Um, no, though- I mean, kind of. I'm a DP at the Studio. Direc- director of photography, I mean. Cinematographer. Still photography's a hobby, I... so, sort of. Maybe. If that's the kind of thing you pay attention to."

“Oh,” Josephine says, her voice low and impressed as it clicks. “The Studio?” Industry people pass through her café regularly—the whole district, really—but they typically radiate constant urgency and ego. He doesn’t seem to have either quality. “It’s nice having someone from the art world stop by,” she says with a gentle laugh. “And, really, you’ve never exhibited before?”

That seems like more knowledge than he actually asked for, but he's not going to push away a little politeness - even if it's not authentic. "I don't enjoy my coffee tasting sweet at all, natural or artificial." He enjoys sweetness, but coffee isn't meant as a vessel for sugar of any sort. He can go to desserts for that. "I'm not starving to death," he tries to reassure her with a little smile, "I just want the coffee. Thank you, though."

“Right, of course, I get that,” she nods. Some people really do have strong opinions about their coffee’s sugar levels. She lets it go, but something makes her glance back—a quiet double take—before she tilts her head, studying him more carefully. “Say, you look a little familiar…” Josephine smiles to soften the observation. “The beaches, maybe? Bahía Azul?”

Teodósio shoots his hostess another smile, a touch brighter this time. "Now then, hopefully that earns your stamp of approval... Otherwise I'm afraid I'm a lost cause."

“Oh, the other cafés in this district are just shaking in their boots,” she says with gentle ribbing. Josephine definitely wouldn’t mind the extra foot traffic—the bills in the stockroom-slash-manager’s office are certainly screaming for it—but it may very well be just wishful thinking at this point. “And again, there’s no such thing as a lost cause, not in my turf. I’ll have them over to you in a bit.” Josephine celebrates the small wins. A pastry and adding milk to coffee (which, yes, costs extra) is still something. Minutes later, she approaches with her new patron’s order balanced on a tray. Curiously, she asks, “This is your first time here, I think. Right? I usually only have regulars these days. La Paloma’s a stickler for routines and the same old places that’ve been here for longer than I have.” That, and her café doesn’t particularly scream, ‘HOME FOR THE MONEY-HUNGRY YUPPIES!’ If it did, she wouldn’t be neck-deep in debt. Heck, she could actually be making a profit. “Are you new to the area? To working here, I mean.”

Josephine nods, “All right, then. A whiskey.” She rises slightly on the stool, straightening herself up, as if readying herself for the whiskey (something she’s rarely had in her life). And it shows. Once she takes the glass and sips conservatively, Josephine erupts into coughs she tries desperately to suppress, not wanting to disrespect the bartender watching her. “It’s really… mature,” she says, stifling another cough. Are her eyes burning? “Would it be blasphemy to ask for some more ice?”

"Oh. Yeah, thanks," he responds, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he looks down at the old, beloved thing. "Was a gift from my dad."

“That’s so sweet,” she adds kindly. “Are you a professional photographer? Like, would I know your work anywhere? Y’know, small island and all.”

"I'll take the strength, but just milk'll do for me." Does he look like someone who seeks out Mill classics?

“Not a fan of the sweetness?” Josephine asks. “Some people do think raw cane sugar syrup’s a little out of their comfort zone, but it’s only because we’re all used to those artificial sweeteners that are in every other café in the city.” Her hands flutter in that universal gesture of, ‘Let's talk about something else.’ “Um, is there anything else I can get you? Some food, maybe?”

minho's brows raise at her assessment of his looks, lips twitching into a smile that seems to inquire where on earth she got the idea from. but he listens patiently as she talks about the movie in question and he can't help but chuckle. "horror, hm?" how fitting, he thinks. but he chooses not to say it. instead, he rolls up his sleeves, pointing in the general direction of the crates he suspects need to be lifted and tilts his head as if to prompt her to give a nod of confirmation. "well, don't go around saying that within ear shot of my best friend," he adds, an image of angelica flashing through his mind as he pictures her reaction to someone claiming he had 'movie star potential', "she might try and cast me for her next project and i'm not sure i'm made for the big screen." he flashes her another grin, rare and honest. "up until now i liked to think i had a pretty forgettable look going for me. you sure this isn't just you trying to butter me up?" there's something teasing to be found in his tone now too. "i swear the muffin's worked just fine on that front. no extra work needed. i'm easy like that."

“Oh?” Josephine’s brows perk. “And who’s your best friend?” Followed by light laughter, “No, don’t call yourself easy! I feel like a high school sleaze!” She shakes her head, grinning. “Though honestly, you do have that leading man look—very silver screen. But I’m not about the whole, ‘using words to get what you want’ thing. I prefer to rely solely on my natural charm. Much more ethical, no?”

“There’s no such thing in my café,” Josephine shakes her head, smiling. “I was just wondering if you wanted something to eat. You know, as much as I like people coming back for seconds and thirds, I don’t really condone a diet consisting of only coffee. So, what do you say?”

minho watches patiently as she makes her assessment on his potential job. his arms are crossed lazily, head tilted slightly to the side as his dark eyes sparkle with amusement. when she concludes her guesses, his lips curve into a grin. "a performer..." he repeats, like he's trying the word on for size. he thinks of his carefully curated documents. of the name he now carries like he owns it while his own fades into obscurity. the way he bends himself into whichever mold guarantees him survival for another day. "i guess you could say it's something like that," he finally concludes, shrugging his shoulders, though the way he says it sounds more like she just nailed an inside joke she didn't even know she was part of. he winks at her then, all dramatics, big and showy much unlike his usual persona and tips an imaginary hat. "life is my stage and muffins will be my payment."

Coronado is nothing but a madhouse full of performers. Josephine knows that much. It’s a lawless land where secrets fold into one another, and it’s best to turn a blind eye to it—especially if you aren’t the type who’s used to living with the heartache that comes with circus life. It’s an endless sort of loneliness covered in colored streamers. It took a while for her to learn that lesson—and she sure as hell learned it the agonizingly slow and hard way—but she’s comfortable with it now. Everyone has (and always will have) secrets. Most of them will successfully take them to their graves. Sometimes, those graves are dug early. She just hopes Minho isn’t one of those people. He seems nice. “You know, you do have the face of a movie star,” Josephine teases. “Have you watched that one horror movie, The Feedback Loop? The main actor finds a film reel of some sort of homemade movie, and he basically has to fight off the ghosts coming out of his TV when he watches it. You look like him, kind of.”

"Tempting as finding a future billionaire spouse sounds," She starts, though the thought causes a snort to interrupt. "I think I'll probably just end up working anyway." It's hard not to go looking for a scoop, especially given who the other attendees are. "I haven't had a night out that wasn't about a lead or a story in forever. I don't think I remember how." It's a joke, but there's a sad truth in the way her voice softens with the confession.

Josephine pouts a little, “But don’t you want to turn off reporter mode and really enjoy yourself? I heard there’s going to be a ball, and carriages, even; wouldn’t you want to find someone to dance the night away with?” She’s making a state dinner far more romantic than it actually is—for all she knows, having fun might actually warrant a sanction. “The night has all the markings of a fairytale: you get all dressed up, go to a palace, meet the love of your life—and so on, and so forth.” Living happily ever after sounds juvenile, so she leaves it unspoken, but the smile on her face tells Simone exactly what she means. “In any case, maybe this is a sign that you need more mandated nights out. We cannot let ourselves be worked to death.” The irony isn't lost on her, but there's something comforting about finding another soul who toils day in and day out, yet still manages to just stop and make conversation. La Paloma moves too fast. Coronado moves too fast. The world moves too fast.

Her eyes roll as Lucky swipes the DVD from her hands, though she’s hardly bothered by it. By the looks of that poor cheerleader—blonde hair matted with blood, her left eyeball drooping from its socket, and her right forearm somehow replaced with a bright red chainsaw—“Anything’s better than what she’s going through.” She glances at the other DVD cover. “You promise we’re gonna get a happy ending, Lucky?” The joke falls away from Josephine’s voice, leaving behind something soft and strangely earnest.