#tbd|verse

This February, New York has been absolutely brutal with dangerously low temperatures and snow that has turned everything ~briefly~ glowing, crystalline white. The sun had struggled that morning when she was on her way to work and her face ached with the smile. But eventually the cold in tandem with hours of treating the city's forgotten brings aching joints and a stiff back and a little less wonder at the still falling flakes. But it isn't the snow, the fairly quiet night and surprisingly low traffic that casts faint glowing pools of colour that catches the nurse's eye. Instead, as she passes by one of the neighbourhood flower shops, it's a stark pair of figures. The man she knows is tall, he has at least a foot on her, and as far as she can tell, has not moved a muscle since she'd come by nearly twelve hours earlier. The second figure is the one that concerns her the most. The man's dog is gorgeous and such a good companion, sitting quietly beside him. Anyone else might let this go. But Beth isn't just anyone. She unwraps the hand-knitted scarf from around her face and neck, and approaches the pair slowly, trying to be as non-threatening as possible. Not hard to do when you're short and fine boned and weigh probably less than the dog. She holds the scarf in between two small hands, ready to offer it to either man or beast as needs it the most. Words whisper soft as the fog creeping up from the exhaust vents and from out across the bay. "Uhm, excuse me...sir...but...ah....how long have ya been here? Wha' I mean is...d' ya need help? Mebbe ya lost or somet'ing?"

Notes in a Quiet Room || Accepting

I. A Spoonful of Sugar || Julie Andrews

II. Desert Rose || Sting ft. Cheb Mami III. Season of the Witch || Lana Del Rey {cover} IV. The Mountain || Dead Can Dance V. Landslide || Bush {cover} VI. Feels like Summer || Childish Gambino VII. Because of You || Ne-Yo VIII. Never Never Land || Lyfe Jennings IX. A Kind of Magic || Queen X. Bottom of the River || Delta Rae

The look passing from Beth to Ron is perhaps one of the reasons Andrew Riley refused to remember that she is only five years his junior and not ten or twenty. A grown woman of thirty-two. Teeth come down to bite into her lower lip, devoid of the careful colouring most women choose to shellac themselves in. Hands held up before her modest chest with fingers curled together, a tawny contrast to the white sweater ~ jumper, they call it here~ and apron. Hair done up in twin buns on either side of her face though she’s got some escapee strands that have legged it toward her neck. Wide doe eyes staring on as if they’re dealing with unhoused nuclear isotopes rather than potential food options. She watches his hands, a greater indicative of thought and mood than his face ~this is not a masquerade, they are not required to hide behind the acceptably palatable~ and which have a life of their own. She still bears a spare glance now and then to eye and lip. Resorts to atonal vibrations of his voice to fill in the gaps. He speaks wisdom, Ron Kray, and she soaks it all up like a sponge having near perished in a desert. She doesn’t know how Andy always managed to come up with all the right things, how everything was perfectly regimented and prepared.  She can hardly cook packet rice or the saimin that comes in the wrinkly little plastic packaging with the salt-spice flavouring that never really tastes right and tries to pass it off as ramen. {It was a microwave and she’d been going on nearly an entire week with perhaps four hours of sleep and it wasn’t like they’d had to call the fire-department, the little extinguisher on the counter’d done the trick, in her defense}.

Granted, looking at the words now, half of them upset her in that vague malaise kind of way. There was the one that had spiced beef, gravy, bread sauce ~she will have to use the internet to to see if they mean stuffing by that~ cranberry sauce, potatoes, of course, root veggies, and sprouts cooked with bacon. The most traditional Irish of the three. The second was more English: swapping out turkey or prime rib for the spiced beef, the pigs-in-a-blanket ~so much different than what she’s used to on the mainland~ and not much else. Tiny fingers squirm over and around his arm and she peeks out from behind him as if the menus will bite if she has not a solid wall of this man to stand behind. Even smaller still is her voice. 

“I...don’ need t’ make anyt’ing special.” She means for herself. There’s enough vegetables to suffice her small needs. Nothing that will add extra time, expertise, or any more daunting prospects to what’s already being made. Especially in the light that it’s been over a year of missed family dinners on Sunday where she’s felt anything but a part of that, and has choked down every dead animal imaginable.

The little table outside the cafe is three-quarters of the way covered in a large spiral bound notebook ~college ruled~ and the page is filled with meticulous, tiny writing. Portions of which are highlighted in various colours whose meaning is known only to the woman being spoken to, but such is the way of charting. There's also a large glass of iced coffee. The occasional breeze ~comforting in the late afternoon heat~ carries the faintest traces of coconut and caramel and something a little toasted, a little nutty. Thankfully Beth had been looking up at him before he spoke otherwise it might have seemed like she were ignoring him. Social custom dictates she smile at him in return for the compliment on it. She isn't so sure that the flattery is true. Beth tends to be shy when it comes to displaying a full-tooth display. The corners of her generous mouth turn upward and she inclines her head to one side. "Doctor Andrews," she murmurs in acknowledgement. Her voice is warm, very soft and tinged with a smokey husk while she is careful to enunciate every word to sound as haole as possible. Still the formality doesn't seem to match the setting and she says "Nicholas." The hand not holding her pen flickers toward the empty space and second chair at her table. "Shift changing takes a kind of adjustment, so please have a seat. Let me order you a drink." Even outside of the hospital, Beth can't help but nurse the aches of others. Green-and-honey eyes narrow as she examines his face for a moment, then two. "You're just coming off three sixteen hour shifts, so I'd say...if you want coffee, we'll do a Bisch Please ~white chocolate, toasted marshmallow, hazelnut and espresso, tastes just like one of those speculoos cookies, or....if you're not in the mood to be caffeinated, a Surf's Up: Watermelon, pineapple, lime and white tea, with either lychee or pomegranate popping bobba."

"Mebbe mo' beddah question is why you t'ink someone should."