Regular customers of the Midnight Grind have a passing familiarity with the table that is nearest to the counter where the owner and employees are easily accessible for both service and pleasant conversation. Like every seat in the cafe, some people have designated certain areas as their main spot when dining in and may be more than a bit offended when they are reminded otherwise with the presence of another customer. The table near the counter is rather special, however.
There are people who remember the last person who exclusively sat there and for one obvious and specific reason. They remember a tall man, with lightly tanned skin, dark hair, and even darker eyes, occupying the spot, nursing a large mug of coffee, sometimes a cheap cigarette between his fingers, and some sort of journal or sketchbook laying flat on the table. They remember he was a friendly fellow who smiled at everyone, but shared a special one with the owner, the kind that can only be described as intimate.
That was a few years ago. Something changed. He began to sit there less and less until he was gone, like a good memory passing through.
But just so happens, that he's come back after several months.
The golem, Oren, is manning the cafe today, expressionless in his features, and yet an aura of irritation emanates from him. It's directed at the man near the counter with loose dark hair that frames his face in an appealing manner, enough that some of the younger female customers keep stealing glances and giggling amongst themselves. If he notices, he doesn't acknowledge the attention. He's much more interested in his drink and takes a deep sip to assess the flavor.]
... Coffee's good as ever, Oren. Hell, I say it's an improvement too.
I mean, you didn't even try to give me fake sugar this time.
[Oren doesn't reply, opting to busy himself with organizing the counter.
Dominique Vargas, is used to this treatment. Shrugging, he takes another sip before setting the mug down. He speaks up again, as if replying to s ome unsaid words.]
Yeah, yeah, I didn't come here unannounced. I let her know I'm back in town; no ulterior motives, promise. Just wanna see how she's been doing and I wanna check out the new people here.
[Dominique inhales the bitter aroma and then breathes out, leaning back against his seat to look up at the ceiling.]
From what I'm hearing, the person who sits here might not be happy to see me.
ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ɢᴏɴɴᴀ sᴇᴇ ᴍᴇ ɪɴ ᴀ ɴᴇᴡ ʟɪɢʜᴛ
Regular customers of the Midnight Grind have a passing familiarity with the table that is nearest to the counter where the owner and employees are easily accessible for both service and pleasant conversation. Like every seat in the cafe, some people have designated certain areas as their main spot when dining in and may be more than a bit offended when they are reminded otherwise with the presence of another customer. The table near the counter is rather special, however.
There are people who remember the last person who exclusively sat there and for one obvious and specific reason. They remember a tall man, with lightly tanned skin, dark hair, and even darker eyes, occupying the spot, nursing a large mug of coffee, sometimes a cheap cigarette between his fingers, and some sort of journal or sketchbook laying flat on the table. They remember he was a friendly fellow who smiled at everyone, but shared a special one with the owner, the kind that can only be described as intimate.
That was a few years ago. Something changed. He began to sit there less and less until he was gone, like a good memory passing through.
But just so happens, that he's come back after several months.
The golem, Oren, is manning the cafe today, expressionless in his features, and yet an aura of irritation emanates from him. It's directed at the man near the counter with loose dark hair that frames his face in an appealing manner, enough that some of the younger female customers keep stealing glances and giggling amongst themselves. If he notices, he doesn't acknowledge the attention. He's much more interested in his drink and takes a deep sip to assess the flavor.]
... Coffee's good as ever, Oren. Hell, I say it's an improvement too.
I mean, you didn't even try to give me fake sugar this time.
[Oren doesn't reply, opting to busy himself with organizing the counter.
Dominique Vargas, is used to this treatment. Shrugging, he takes another sip before setting the mug down. He speaks up again, as if replying to s ome unsaid words.]
Yeah, yeah, I didn't come here unannounced. I let her know I'm back in town; no ulterior motives, promise. Just wanna see how she's been doing and I wanna check out the new people here.
[Dominique inhales the bitter aroma and then breathes out, leaning back against his seat to look up at the ceiling.]
From what I'm hearing, the person who sits here might not be happy to see me.
[The fact is, no one actually "told" him.
He's just good at picking up context clues.]