|Location||Sweet Basil - Harlem|
|Summary||Huruma bestows a title upon the newest stranger after bumping into him again.|
|Prompt||Sweet Basil. Prompt: Dinner from last night isn't sitting so well. Huruma sets.|
| Sweet Basil's been opened and closed several times, but it always reopened. Jazz greats past and present play and record here, and if the club itself is a little cramped (often standing room only), the atmosphere's thick and the music is never anything but amazing. The ubiquity of cameras and camera-likes mean these crowded concerts often hit the cloud, but actually being there? Unique experience.|
It's a rare night out that Huruma hasn't had at least one drink, and so the perpetual cup of coffee she has been refilling over the evening leaves her with the residue of a caffeine high. Her dress is simple and well-tailored, a fitted sheath of deep blue matched with dark hosiery and studs at her ears. The show on the stage is currently a tribute to a late jazz great, with some songs older than people twice her age. Classic standards fill the club with a warm embrace and a relatively full house; Huruma keeps near the bar, for all that it is easier to people watch as she takes in the concert.
Roddy seems slightly more in place here than he does in other locations about New York. Clad in a exquisitely tailored suit (it's not a tux, but it's pretty snazzy), he wanders through the crowd, hands in his pockets. At one point, he whistles along to the music, which earns him a dirty look or two. He edges up to the bar. "G & T," he orders airily, and leans an elbow on the bar, glancing around the room.
Huruma's attention is pulled by the sound of a whistle, out of place as it is. She follows it to the source with a look, tracking Roddy down with her eyes. Her senses are a full pond of minds, but she can pick out the familiar as if it were a white fish. It was only once, but hard to forget in recent memory. Her amusement stifles behind her lips as she moves on down part of the bar, sidling up alongside with a note of poise. "Waiting on someone?" She hums, voice low when she greets with this.
"Ah." Roddy greets Huruma with a single syllable and a raised eyebrow. "Oh, there was a young lady who said she might meet me here," he says brightly. "Although I do think she also said she might be washing her hair. I quite understand if she couldn't make it. Tricky business, washing hair."
"I wouldn't know." Huruma tacks on charmingly, a thin curve to her lips. Hair isn't a problem for her. Wouldn't you know it. She raises her brows a touch, one arching higher when she gives him the bad news. "But I do think that is the universal signal that you are probably out of luck."
"Ah well," says Roddy philosophically, as he reaches for his gin and tonic. "It happens, no?" He raises his drink. "I do hope she enjoys washing her hair, however. Perhaps she has expensive shampoo that smells like strawberries."
"You do not seem terribly disappointed with the development." Huruma crosses her ankles as she edges up against the bar, leaning one elbow onto it, other arm crossing her ribcage to rest her hand on the other wrist. "Perhaps." Or it could be that she's enjoying a night alone at home with movie streaming instead. Options!
"Well," says Roddy upon reflection, considering his liquor glass. "I am not sure if 'not disappointed' is the right word, exactly. Only, you see, life is life, and people are people, and it seems quite a waste of energy to be upset over the fact someone has expressed a disinclination to spend time in your company. They are welcome to their own feelings, and there is an entire world out there."
Huruma flashes a smile. "I've known too many people that would take personal offense. You're very much a gentleman, aren't you?" She laughs, low and languid, eyes skimming over the other patrons.
"Well, of course I am." Roddy seems almost offended that she might doubt that even a little. "Born and bred, miss, born and bred. Raised with honour and distinction!"
"So I see." Huruma narrows her eyes, mouth twisted slightly in a study of him. "Uncommon, isn't it? Raised with honor and distinction?" It's not mocking, but it might be close to it. Depends on how his ears are tuned.
Roddy is completely oblivious to any and all mockery. "Oh, I couldn't say," he demurs. "After all, I am only intimately familiar with my own upbringing, and cannot make claims about others. My parents did take care with that, however. Also: jam, but that's beside the point."
Huruma's gaze has moved away, and all but darts back at the last. "Wait, jam?" She isn't sure that she heard that right.
"Jam." Roddy nods. "My mother believes in it greatly. It was there for us through hard times. It can be economically beneficial, jam."
"Jam as in, fruit jam?" Huruma clarifies once more, looking faintly bewildered.
"Yes," explains Roddy. "Preserves of all sorts, in fact."
"So you're a Jam Lord?" Huruma summarizes him in a rather short way, but it's not wrong, is it? "That sounds-- like quite a journey, actually." She holds down a small laugh.
Roddy raises an eyebrow. He looks to the left. He looks to the right. He raises the other eyebrow. "I would not consider myself to be a Jam Lord," he declares with dignity. "However," he adds, all cheerfulness, "if it please you to label me so, how can I object?"
Lord of Jams sounds more like he's a rock and roll god, so Jam Lord it is. "It does please me. But I will still call you Roderick." Huruma lifts her hand in a tiny shrug, palm up. "Lord Sewell is much too formal even for me."
"It's also not correct," Roddy informs her, with a lift of his eyebrows, thrusting his hands into pockets. He pauses, coughs, clears his throat. "Well. Unless you are taking it from the title Jam Lord. Is that a peerage or a title by courtesy, d'you think?"
"Courtesy title, I think... in a roundabout way? Jam is a family custom, yes?" Huruma questions, watching his movements as he hides his hands in the pockets of his suit.
"Well, you see," says Roddy thoughtfully. "Courtesy titles are awarded by proximity to a peerage. Usually. Except in the way nothing's ever consistent. So if the jam is...wait a minute." He squints at the distant wall. "I've just realized none of this makes any sense any more."
Huruma leans in subtly to listen, casually interested in the definitions of titles. But of course, it doesn't last as long as it could. Alas. She pulls her lips back in a slow smile, white on brown. "No, it doesn't. But even I indulge in ridiculousness once in a while."
"I think everyone should engage in ridiculousness once in a while," says Roddy airily. "I think it good for the digestion."
"I prefer to engage sparingly. Like washing my hair." Huruma hoods her eyes and runs a palm over the shear of her head with a smirk.
"Well, you can always wash your head," Roddy says cheerfully. "But how _is_ your digestion? Dinner sitting well? Perhaps you require more ridiculousness."
"Excuse me?" Huruma laughs, the sound just a tad pitchy for all that his question is a wee too intimate. "My digestion is perfectly fine, thank you. Too much ridiculous gives me ulcers."
"Perhaps you have an allergy," says Roddy, taking a sip of his drink. "Very sad." He glances to the stage, and cheers lustily for the number that just ended, apparently purely on principle. "Or perhaps what is sauce for the goose is not sauce for the gander but--er, I say, that should be the other way around."
"Your goose metaphors have lost me." Huruma lifts her hand to her nose, an amused look still lingering on her features. "I may be allergic."
"It is not quite as sad to be allergic to goose," says Roddy sagely. "Trust me, it is hardly that tasty."
"I have had the displeasure of eating goose before. Not my favorite bird. Eggs, however, I can deal with." Huruma lifts her hand to pat Roderick gently on the edge of his shoulder, expression still lingering.
Roddy glances over to his shoulder, and the patting there. He considers. "You are patting my shoulder," he observes. Just in case she hadn't noticed.
Huruma's hand is a purposeful, light weight at the edge of his frame, long fingers bending into the fabric of his suit before they slip away and back to her side. "...And?" she hums.
"Oh," said Roddy, "I just thought I would mention it. In case you were trying to get my attention or something. It is an awfully nice suit, isn't it? Sometimes people pet it without meaning to. It's very soft."
"It is. I can tell." Huruma isn't at all shy about lifting her hand back up to draw it up and over his cuff. "No, the first time was whim. This time-- I am feeling your suit."
Roddy accepts that, with a nod of his head and a general amused tolerance. "Ah, yes. It is a very nice suit, isn't it?" he says cheerfully. "It's from Papa's tailor, although I did wonder if I should find someone here to make new ones. I like to pick up things wherever I've been."
Huruma links her hands back along her side, head tipping. "I only know one other man with good taste in clothing-- at least, around these parts. It's a rare quality to know good from great."
"Well, thank you," says Roddy brightly. "But, I suppose that many people around here have much more pressing concerns than clothing. In the end, it's really a frivolity, isn't it? I appreciate it, personally, but I like frivolities."
"As do I. But now I see-- clearly we should all run naked and rampant instead, if it's so frivolous." Huruma wouldn't be against it, really. Just maybe when it's warmer.
Roddy squints at her as if he is not entirely sure whether or not she is being serious. "Why, of course not," he says. "That would be positively uncivilized. I only meant to say," he says, "that perhaps we should not be too critical of people who have other preoccupations other than...fashion."
"Mmm. Fine, then." Huruma rolls her shoulder in a noncommital gesture. Being critical is half the fun. "But I still think nudity would solve a lot of percieved social balance." Her laugh still keeps her seriousness vague.
"Well," says Roddy cheerfully. "That is a very interesting viewpoint, at least." Interesting. Very interesting. "It might get rather nippy at times, however."
"That's the point." Huruma offers back with a slimmer smile, before she edges a few inches further from him, eyes casting off into the crowd. "I have a quarry to fetch. On the job." She lifts a hand as she slinks a few inches more, fingers waving. "A pleasure seeing you again."Roddy waves in response. "A pleasure," he says, all politeness and sunshine. "Good evening, miss."