|Satan is a Lady|
|Location||Oddball Coffee - Mutant Town, NYC|
|Summary||It's storytime for lil Mikhail! :D|
|Warning: The conversation takes an adult themed turn.|
| Oddball Coffee sits on the edge of Mutant Town, near the northern 14th Street border, which may be why it's managed to keep its windows intact and its varied clientele happy. An eclectic, open-minded place, Oddball regularly showcases mutant artists and performers on its walls and on the tiny stage near the back. Framed photographs covering every spare inch of one brick wall show off wild feats that are only possible with mutation, and a few of their baristas make a show of using mutant powers in the making of their drinks.
It's made Oddball one of the few businesses which manages to appeal to both tourists and locals. The shop is nearly always busy, and it's not unusual for a stranger to request the empty chair at a full table.|
| It is a winter day. The weather is cold and overcast.|
Tiffany tends to romanticize gray, gloomy days such as this one. Sitting in the coffee shop window, she leans her chin on the heel of her hand as she stares out at the dreary city street. Her pen is poised just above a stack of loose leaf sheets. A small neuroticism, she hates lined paper almost as much as she hates being anchored to the spine of a notebook. Of course, notebooks do come in handy. For instance, when someone opens the door to the cafe you're in and a gust of wind takes up your work, carrying away sheet after sheet.
Rising from her chair too fast, Tiffany is forced to steady herself by planting a palm down on the table she's been working at. Her lashes flutter with a sudden rush of dizziness as the door closes, and her papers float to the coffee shop floor.
She wears high waisted, black skinny jeans and a short-cropped sweater. Black as well, the sweater ends just below the belt-line of her pants. In bold white script across her breasts, it reads: Satan is a Lady.
Mikhail does not romanticize gray, gloomy days such as this one. In fact, he alternates wildly between hating the general concept of weather he must go out in and loving his ability to go out in it. Today seems to be tilting mostly toward the latter, thankfully, as evidenced by his aimless sort of stroll through Mutant Town, his scarf tight around his neck, his floppy mess of hair covered by a grey cap. As the door opens, a single paper flies out of the coffee shop and into the great outdoors, where Mikhail, startled, chases after it. An updraft presses it flat against a street sign, making it easy for him to pluck off, and he pauses for a moment to peer curiously downward at the sheet in his hand before pushing open the door to Oddball in search of its rightful owner.
By its very structure, the paper is clearly home to a nameless poem. A few titles have been jotted above the majority of the work, only to be scribbled out. In the top right corner, the author appears to have given up and awarded it the working title: Ro, Version 2.
The poem centers around a personified storm. The storm, a woman, is initially described as gentle and demure. She nourishes her lover with her wetness, allowing him to drink her in. As her passion grows, he becomes threatened by her strength. He attempts to pacify her, but she refuses to be quieted. In the ensuing power struggle, the man drowns between her thighs.
Just inside the coffee shop's glass door, Tiffany finally moves from her table. Sluggish, the light-headed young woman bends to shuffle some of the nearer-by papers into her hands.
Mikhail makes it as far as a step inside the door, which swings closed behind him, before he stops in order to more carefully read that paper. He blinks at it for a moment, then swallows tightly. And then, finally, he lifts his gaze to see who it belongs to, and only then does he spot Tiffany. For a moment, he looks indecisive. That is, there is a powerful temptation to fold the thing up and slip it into his pocket. Tiffany would never know! Something about her sluggishness catches his attention, though, and after that beat of hesitation, he steps forward to scoop up the rest of the strewn papers, murmuring, "Here, I will help."
“Oh,” Tiffany pants breathily after a small delay in her reaction time. She flutters her lashes again as she looks over to Mikhail. “Thank you.” Bringing up two fingers, Tiffany gently presses them into her temple as she rises back up from the floor, “Mm.”
Mikhail is not immune to lash-fluttering in the best of circumstances. He is especially not immune in the face of a pretty girl and-- um. Poetry. He gives Tiffany a slightly flustered smile as he offers up the papers. "You are welcome," he says, and reluctantly extends the bit with the poem as well. He spends a moment watching her - by which we mean staring - before he clears his throat and says, "You are very familiar."
"Oh, I-" Tiffany rolls her eyes as she gently takes back the poem and other blank sheets, "Used to work here." For like a week, Tiffany. Nobody remembers that. "Wait -- you do look a little familiar. Do I know you?" The dark haired young woman narrows her eyes, sliding back over to her table. Her fingers probe the edges of the small stack of papers, pressing it into uniformity before she sets it back down.
"No," Mikhail says, a little too quickly. His eyes trail after the poem for a moment, then lift back to Tiffany. "I would know if you knew me," he adds. He spends another moment watching Tiffany (staring) as he tries to place her before the lucky pieces of memory tumble into place and he says with quick enthusiasm, "You are friends with Moody! I saw you at the New Year."
Only just recovering from her mental fog, Tiffany is not threatened by the scrutiny. Also, it’s Mikhail, so. She probably wouldn’t be threatened, anyway. “Oh, yeah,” she hms softly as the truth is discovered, “Yeah, her and I went to high school together.” She shifts her eyes. Her thumbs find and hook into her belt-loops as she shrugs, “And I’m like, moving in with her or whatever I guess.”
Excuse me. Mikhail is /super/ threatening. Super. Threatening. He lifts a now-free hand to tug his cap off, then runs his fingers through the ruffled mess of his hair as he gives Tiffany a lopsided smile. "High school, da. I remember now." He pauses for a moment, a little awkward, as if he doesn't quite know where to go from here, and then sticks one hand out in a quick jab toward Tiffany, offering it with, "I am Mikhail."
Tiffany jumps a little as the hand comes at her. She eyes it before turning her wide eyes back up to Mikhail's, pressing her lips into a flat line at the gesture. This is a weird time to shake someone's hand. At least, she makes it weird. But she indulges him, anyway. Awkward. "I'm uhm, Tiffany." She releases her other hand from her belt-loop, gesturing to where the papers had been strewn around her on the ground just a moment ago to thank him, again. ... ... "Thanks, again."
It's totally weird. Shit. Mikhail's /totally weird/, isn't he? He rocks backward, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as awkwardness skyrockets. Fortunately for him, he's got a back-up system, which kicks in right about the time he realizes that something about this is-- weird. It's that deep, desperate desire to be liked, and appreciated, and maybe even admired, tied into all sorts of possible potentialities that shift and rearrange in an effort to make his desires reality. And into this, Mikhail gives Tiffany a self-conscious smile. "You're welcome," he says, and then tries, "Did you write it? The poetry?"
"Oh, yeah," Tiffany averts her gaze. When she looks back, it's with a slightly renewed interest. (He is pretty tall.) She tucks her hair behind her ear, "It's...uhm." Tiffany shakes her head in a small, self-deprecating gesture, "It is what it is." Lowering her head somewhat, she lifts her gaze to doe eye the poor tall bastard, "Did you read it?"
Mikhail flushes just a little, ducking his head as he admits, soft-voiced, "Only part of it. It was. Um." And here Mikhail stops, because what does one /say/ about smut poetry, really? He looks intensely flustered for a moment, and then fumbles toward a recovery to ask, "Have you finished it?"
Tiffany can’t help but smile. She let’s out a pant of laughter at Mikhail’s reactions, which she can’t help but find just a tad endearing. “Not yet,” she wets her bottom lip, turning her chin up in thought. “I’m still playing with it.”
Mikhail's gaze is briefly caught by that gesture, and then he forces his gaze upward. Perhaps her laughter helped ease the situation. Perhaps luck simply makes him bold. Either way, he finds a stronger degree of certainty when he returns her smile and says, "It's very /good/." His gaze flicks down to her lips again, and he adds, "Very. Evocative."
Tiffany brings up her ring finger, running it's red painted nail along the bottom of her lip as if to test her lipstick. She's not actually wearing any. It's a purely tactical maneuver. "Well, it's actually based on a true story," Tiffany raises her eyebrows. Moving back to her table, she lifts her mug to her mouth only to lower it with a pout. It's empty! What's a girl to do?
Mikhail is extremely susceptible to tactical maneuvers. His gaze lingers a long beat longer than is really polite; so long, in fact, that it takes him a moment to parse her pout. When he does, he stirs suddenly, his smile quick and bright as he says, "Would you like another one? I could get it. I would like to. Um. Hear about the story?" Luck or no, Mikhail's confidence only stretches so far, and his offer ticks upward into an uncertain question.
"Oh," Tiffany shrugs. So, weird and unexpected! "Sure, I guess. ...thanks." She trains a hand to the back of her chair as she slides into it, folding a leg under her, "And then, I'll tell you about the time I drowned a man in my pussy." Okay. That was sarcasm. She's probably not going to tell him about that. With a smirk, Tiff holds up her empty mug to him. Maybe she will, though?
The woman at the table next to hers looks up, startled and scandalized.
Mikhail looks shocked, and then-- well. Let's just say that Mikhail's interest has been perked. He clears his throat again and takes her mug, then hurries away for a refill so that he can hurry back for a story. Luck or no, it seems good odds that by the end of it, Mikhail will be the one liking, appreciating, /admiring/. Ahem.Leaning back in her chair, Tiffany just shakes her head at Mikhail’s back as he walks off. Her eyes turn to the woman at the adjacent table still glaring at her. She bears her teeth threateningly, biting at the air in the woman’s direction like a rabid animal. It forces the busy-body to look back down to the laptop in front of her, prompting her to put in her headphones.