FIGURANTE

“erm, the omegas, do you mean?” margot’s brows knit in wonder, “i… haven’t been paying attention to them that much, to be honest. but they’re heroes, so i guess they’re okay?” she starts to feel inadequate—and maybe a bit dumb—for not having a more intellectual response, but: “i, well, i used to attend the xavier institute, so i was surrounded by a lot of future superheroes—i think i’ve actually shared a class with siren before—but, erm, my life’s always been about one thing, so…” margot cringes, a light pink tinging her cheeks, “…you must think i’m so ignorant.”

margot’s face falls. “i’m so sorry for your loss, finn,” she says. “we don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to—i know how hard it can be to lose someone you love.” she pauses. “…if you ever do feel like talking about it, though… my door is always open,” she offers with a small smile. “i, erm… maybe could drop by your parlor one of these days? i don’t really get tattoos, but, could i watch you? it seems like a good trade if you’re going to watch me dance, yes?” chuckles margot.

“—and i should ask you the same, but i know better than to think you’ll ever get tired of being a plague. not when it’s who you are. i thought i’d found a home in the brotherhood, but all you want to do is hurt people to entertain yourselves. i’ll never understand it—how you can wake up every day and choose to hurt, and have none of it matter to you. you must be so unloved… if you even know what that means.”

glancing at their menus, margot says brightly, “i’ll order both the french toast and the baked oatmeal, then. thank you for your tip—erm, what was it again?”

“for the record, i left my apartment forty-five minutes ago. the subway’s just unreliable, as always.” and a general pain in the neck to ride, being the intangible woman she. margot doesn’t even mention how the abrupt halting of the train jolted her enough for her hand to pass through a pole and send herself flying against a hulking, beanied man holding a toolbox—and he did not look amused. nevertheless, she ambles over to take her usual (re: patient) seat in front of vera, “yes, into two—sometimes more. i just—” margot sighs, “—it feels like, the more mass i take up, the more unstable cells i have. not even my bodysuit can handle it sometimes. i get frustrated, or angry, or stressed—and it’s like i can suddenly see outlines of my body leave me. the ricochets are taking longer, too.”

“i’m terribly sorry if i startled you,” margot says sheepishly, “and—it’s weird, isn’t it? sad, too, because this is my favorite place to rent movies. i can’t find ballet documentaries anywhere else. and you know what’s worse,” she moves just slightly closer to speak quietly at the woman, “is that there’s this smaller video store three blocks away that’s becoming more popular. they’re probably doing a better job cataloging… or maybe it’s because they have an x-rated section.”

“ç’est vraiment le cas parfois,” margot softly laughs, “—erm, j’ai vécu ici plus longtemps que dans ma ville natale, mais...” she clicks her tongue, “...rien ne pourra jamais battre la simplicité de la vie en avignon. la vie y est lente, et j’aime ça.” she tilts her head to the side, a gesture of curiosity, “vous vivez ici depuis longtemps?”

margot spends a minute hiding behind the laminated menu, scanning over the fading rows of printed meal sets before she pulls it down to reveal a triumphant smile. “so, do you like anything you see? i always get their cheeseburgers and make them add caramelized onions to it—their nacho fries, too, and a white chocolate milkshake. très américain, but in the best way, i think.”

margot nods thoughtfully, offering him a warm smile, “i understand… does your sister not dance anymore?” she asks, sliding his teacup across the counter to him. it’s probably too sensitive of a question—his crestfallen expression says as much—so she responds cheerfully, taking advantage of the moment to break some ice. “of course! you might have to try quite hard to see me, though… but what about for me? can i visit you at your—where do you work, exactly, finn?” asked margot, beaming.

margot can’t help but be repulsed by his cruelty. how can he live with himself? “you know, one day, you’re going to get what’s coming to you,” she says haughtily, her whisper betraying the anger in her voice. “les gens aussi lubriques que vous ne vivent pas longtemps.”

margot’s brows knit in confusion as she leans closer to the other woman and says, “…but isn’t french toast made with eggs, too? —and, oatmeal can be baked?”

“c’est un plaisir de vous rencontrer, aussi,” smiles margot, though her face sours a bit when their attention is back on the lit joint. she scrunches her nose, “no, i’ve never smoked a cigarette, either…” margot says it almost shyly, unsure why she’s embarrassed to admit it to a stranger. “but the principle of it is simple, no? inhale and exhale, right? in through the lungs and out through the nose?” she may be a novice, but she certainly knows a thing or two about it—from what she’s seen on tv and in movies. and those anti-smoking commercials, too! poor joe chemo!

margot opens the dvd case, and a broken disc falls out to land on the floor with an audible thud. panic rises in her as she gathers the pieces off the floor, swiftly getting back up and hoping that no one saw, but—"i swear, i didn't break it," she says quickly, "it was already like this when i opened it. i just wanted to make sure i was renting batman & robin."

margot hums, “hm… alright, but if you don’t give back chouchou—” she doesn’t finish the sentence; instead, she just gives him a pointed-yet-playful look as if to say that he’ll be sorry if her words aren’t followed through on. she ends up smiling, though, at the thought of food. “i love burgers,” she exclaims, clasping her hands together, “i know this good burger place on 28th; they have these spicy, cheesy fries with taco beef… so good.”

seeing finn’s face fall, margot softens her expression—though she isn’t sure whether she should ask about it or not. instead, she lifts the kettle from the stove and takes two mugs out of her cupboard. her favorite tea—the kind you have to make by pouring hot water over bagged loose leaves—is grabbed from the elegant ceramic jar on one shelf. she sets them down on the counter and slowly asks, “…not a ballet fan now, then?”