ArchivedLogs:Old and New

Old and New
Dramatis Personae Alyssa, Steve	2017-04-23 “Ssssssssonnnnn ofabiscuit.”
Location <NYC> Firehaus - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side
The sunset ombre walls are the most striking feature of the room by far. A deep, dark purple - almost blue - starts at the ceiling and devolves in even, shaded spreads into a healthy violet, a spunky pink, a sunny yellow, a warm orange, and finally to the namesake: a firehouse red. The common room is fairly open, with the kitchen off to the right of the entryway. A long custom bar with both chairs and backless stools separates the kitchen from the living room, the doors to Steve and Aly's rooms set on either side just beyond it. An antique maple-wood coffee table sits squarely in the center of the room, beside a purple corduroy futon couch flanked by matched end tables, one in pale wood and the other dark, each decorated with abstract flame-like mosaic patterns. Two tall bookcases line the wall across from the couch and coffee table, occupying the space that would enshrine a television in many houses. By the window are two plush red chairs, one a recliner and the other rigid but convertible to a backless chair, with a matching ottoman. Plenty of lamps are sprinkled throughout on various surfaces. Thanks to the surplus of friends and former occasional-roommates that proliferate the Commons, the actual bulk of Aly and Steve Become Roommates: Moving Day has already been accomplished over the course of Friday evening and the bulk of Saturday. By mutual agreement, Sunday morning’s been declared off limits for anyone but the two newly minted roomies; there’s no knocking on the door, no crowd of helpfulness invading like a rolling tide of labrador puppies. Just a scene nearly identical to one a month over three years previous: interrupting the early-morning quiet, the familiar sounds of someone in a kitchen; the off-rhythm quality to those sounds of someone in an //un//familiar kitchen. This time, though, has its distinct differences: there are boxes that are either destined for being unpacked in the kitchen and common area, a few that haven’t been moved into Aly’s room because A Bed To Sleep On was deemed the more important tactical choice of the day before. Importantly, notably: the sleep-mussed brunette standing in the middle of the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal while coffee brews is wearing a shirt. It’s backwards, inside out, and in no way matches her pajama pants’ haphazard slouch down her hips and puddle over her bare feet and their sparkle-polished toes, but it’s //there//. As for the rest of her: there are still pillow marks creasing one side of her face, and one braid has come mostly unraveled from the bottom up; though bare of any deliberate application of it the day before, there are hints of glitter in the crowd of freckles over her cheeks; up her arms. For all that her prior kitchen clattering was clearly done with as much quiet in mind as possible, well: the cereal, it has a crunch. Aly, she crunches, barefoot in the kitchen, early on Sunday morning. There's a soft thumping of feet and scrabbling of claws outside, followed a moment later by the click and whirr of of the lock before the front door opens to admit Steve and Zenobia. The former wears a tight gray athletic t-shirt, navy blue jogging pants, and running shoes, his short blond hair wind-tossed though he shows no sign of perspiring or even breathing hard. The latter, a giant brown and black brindled mutt who looks to have a significant amount of pitbull in her ancestry, is panting heavily, her whiplike tail thrashing the air as she waits for Steve to take off her harness. "Morning!" Steve drifts into the kitchen and scoops up Zenobia's bowl from the floor. "Hope we didn't wake you on our way out." He fills the dog bowl with kibble and setting it back down on a (bone-shaped) mat that reads 'Bone Appetit!' Zenobia, meanwhile, does a lap of the common area, snuffling perfunctorily at the boxes before returning to the kitchen and seating herself before Alyssa. Eyes her food bowl, then looks back up at her. Expectantly. Steve chuckles. "She's waiting for permission. If you want to, it's ah..." He runs a hand through his hair, allows a slightly sheepish smile. "...written on her placemat." “Ssssssssonnnnn ofabiscuit,” SEEMS like it’s a wrong-footed greeting, the first bad step in what surely will end up a dance of mis-matched roommate disaster despite everyone’s assumptions and assurances otherwise. (That’s how they got here, after all.) Except. EXCEPT: the tone picks up over the rushed ‘ofabiscuit,’ not quite hitting a laugh but definitely graced with a grin that starts over ‘biscuit’ and is guileless, bright, and a thousand-watt genuine for all that it’s still clearly pre-coffee. “I just need you to appreciate how much effort I put into //quitely// rifling through the kitchen for all of this -- for the benefit of a completely empty place. No, no,” and the grin has transmuted to a smile, early-morning slow but warmer for it, “you definitely didn’t wake me on your way out.” While there’s clearly some casual appreciation for Steve -- she’s an artist, she’s got eyes, and the attraction isn’t //purely// aesthetic -- it’s equally clear that it’s Zenobia she lights up for entirely. First, she questioningly tips her mostly-milk-by now bowl toward the mat, but then it clicks; she pulls her own bowl back against her chest, and pronounces, “Bone appetit!” with the kind of delight that should be illegal while the caffeine is still un-consumed. That’s not the end, though, because she can’t resist adding, “Jolie fille, bon chien,” at the end. Then, to Steve: “Coffee?” "Oh, good. We're up even earlier most weekdays." Steve's smile is more apologetic than triumphant. "No need to worry about waking me, at least. She goes right back to sleep when I head out, but l doesn't mind getting woken up as long as she gets some pettings or treats out of it." At the sound of the magic words, Zenobia bounds into the air, all four paws leaving the floor -- no mean feat for a dog her size -- and shoves her big squarish head into the kibble, tail thrashing wildly. Steve shakes his head. "That she is, and I would love some coffee, merci." He slips past Aly and starts loading up his industrial blender with a variety of powders and nuts. "Black, s'il te plaît. Have you any plans today?" “If she’s ever lonely, you can send her my way,” Aly assures as she pads over to the sink to rinse, her bowl, then drop it in; she frowns up at the cabinets next, squints one eye -- and reaches for a door. There’s a brief crow of delight -- tempered, but still bright -- for her success in remembering //the right cabinet in the new place//, and she reaches to pull out two mugs. “Light n’ sweet, for me,” she tells him over her shoulder, pouring his mug first -- and delivering it -- before returning to fetch the milk out of the ice box. THEN pour and fix her own. “{If you’re anything close to fluent,}” has a few years’ use rubbing off the textbook-quality to Aly’s French, but it still bears the slightly stilted schoolroom quality -- and a slight, odd sibilance, a semblance of a lisp that isn’t there in her spoken English. “{I could honestly //really// use the practice. I am so incredibly rusty.}” Also, book-learned. Also also, switching back to English. “I think the plan is try to keep the move’s momentum going, but without all the extra bodies. Unpacking, mostly, so I don’t get busy and end up living out of boxes for the next,” she doesn’t actually name a time frame, just sketches a vague, non-sign gesture in the air. “Mass, more than likely, although that might end up asking forgiveness for //not going//, because after the past couple of days,” the madcap, manic moving marathon, “Out sounds kind of terrible, as does more than, like, one or MAYBE two people at a time. I love people,” and she was clearly thriving in the crowd, “but I’d kind of like to catch my breath and let the dust settle.” She tips her head, the focus of intensely gold-green eyes firmly on Steve’s face, asks, “You?” and finally sips her coffee. "{I suppose I am nearly fluent?}" Steve's French is a curious mélange of rustic Provence and melodic Québécois. "{I can get by, certainly. There are others around far better qualified, but if you prefer to speak French, we can. Thank you.}" He receives his coffee with both hands, inhale deeply from its vapor, and takes a small sip. "Excellent! And I think it is perfectly reasonable for you to take a leisurely unpacking day. I haven't much planned: shower, Mass, volunteering, then helping to prep for common supper." He sets the coffee down, takes a carton of cashew milk and a jug of maple syrup from refrigerator, then what looks like a dark green ice cube from the freezer. "if you would like a hand, I'm sure I can work in a couple of hours of shuffling boxes around." A few moments of loud whirring later, what comes out of the blender is a kind of dirty pastel green and looks deeply unappetizing. “{It is less preference, more,}” there’s a pause, a thinking pause, “{I think it it would not hurt to get my usage farther removed from the classroom, out of text books, than I’ve managed -- except for a few words and phrases here and there.}” Alongside that slight oddity of pronunciation, there’s a decidedly formal quality, even in the casually conjugated sentences -- definitely different than his. Though, from her expression, she’s clearly not considering his mystery mix a //bad// quality. “I would honestly love it if you could manage a couple of hours,” she admits after another sip of coffee, and after having watched the blender in a sort of semi-horrified silence. “Either in the actual shuffling department, the unboxing, or just -- honestly, just the getting used to living in the same space company while I do the actual doing. That’d be nice, too.” "{That's fair enough. If you put out the word, plenty of our neighbors will be speaking French at you. Possibly to the exclusion of all else.}" Steve takes a gulp of his viscous green smoothie and washes it down with coffee. "{It's not actually as disgusting as it looks,}" he says, without a great deal of conviction. "I would be glad to provide companionship, at minimum. But I /am/ pretty handy for moving things around." Zenobia makes short work of her kibble and returns to stare at Alyssa. Still expectant, with frequent /meaningful/ glances at the cereal bowl. Steve gives a soft snort of laughter. "{Feel free to ignore her begging. She'll give up eventually if you stand your ground.}" “I’ve also got a decent handle on Spanish, but that’s eight years of elementary school’s worth of conjugating verbs and actually learning to speak to keep up with half my friends,” Aly allows with a grin, “French in high school was for the sake of something //different//.” She’s clearly torn: address the clear crime against tastebuds clearly going on before her, or the dog’s //glances//. So, a compromise: she speaks //at// the dog, reaching out a hand for sniffing at and, if allowed, turning it into an affectionate rumple of soft puppy ears, but //to// Steve. “I owned and ran a bake and ice cream shop solo //before// Evolve,” she informs, just shy of sing-song, “so that wounds me. Deeply. Questionable smoothie //in my own home//,” and she’s biting back a smile and the corners of her mouth, glancing up at Steve to finish, “So if you leave me a note with what the nutrient value and caloric content needs to be, I can PROBABLY craft up something at least a little more appetizing. If you’re interested.” "{My /Spanish/, now that can use some work.}" Steve's Spanish is indeed far less fluid, tinged with a jarring Argentine accent. Zenobia continues staring /hopefully/ at Alyssa. Even throws in a languid chop lick. "I ah...it's true, the smoothies are just to supplement my diet. I'll look up the details and send them to you -- and would be very obliged if you'd give some pointers on making them less..." He lifts the cup, swirling its contents dubiously. ".../this./" Takes a swig of his coffee instead. "Though I will happily take vegan baked goods and ice cream over smoothies any day." “{Mine’s probably a little bit mongrel,}” Aly’s Spanish is indeed -- not quite as thoughtless-fluent as her English, but close, it’s a Southwest US (Arizona, specific) conglomeration of more than one Central American country’s influence. “{But I’ll happily trade you conversations in it.}” The dubiousness continues, but first she relents enough to say, “Baby girl, I already //rinsed// it, you could lick it all you’d like and all you’d end up is sad,” to Zenobia, with a helpless gesture toward the sink. “If you don’t mind the presumption of intimacy, gimme,” the smoothie, “so I can taste and see what I’m up against. I’m confident enough to say I can probably do better, but I’d like to make sure I’m not accidentally doing //worse//.” Steve guffaws. "My Spanish owes a lot to some Mongrels," is ironically in English. But then, in French again, "{Deal. Do we need a schedule? Odd days French, Even days Spanish? I jest! I'm sure we'll settle into something that works." He hands over the last of his smoothie (which Zenobia watches with keen interest), with the warning -- Spanish now, "{It doesn't have a lot of flavor, really.}" He is not exaggerating. The smoothie is vaguely sweet, vaguely nutty, but little else. Meanwhile he drains his coffee and washes out the mug. "I have every faith in your abilities and, besides, my bar is fairly low." It’s clear that Alyssa is //bracing// herself for the affront of the smoothie, despite Steve’s words, but she doesn’t mince her sip -- just goes for it, then… says, “Huh,” once she’s swallowed. “Okay, you were right, it’s //definitely// more appetizing than it looks -- but that’s still not saying much. I can //totally// improve on flavor.” Because she is a thorough creature, she takes one more taste-test sip, then passes the offending not-a-breakfast back over. “{Maybe we could roll for it,}” is Spanish again, as she mimes shaking and releasing dice with her free hand, then laughs. “Whatever works. See you for a couple hours’ roommate bonding time later?” is asked, as she starts to drift back toward her room, coffee mug clasped firmly in both hands. "Oh, I have some very sparkly dice, courtesy of Horus. Dice with all sorts of numbers." Steve finishes his smoothie -- much of the heavier elements had settled to the bottom and the last of it is more paste than liquid -- and rinses that cup out, as well. "You're on!" Over his shoulder to Alyssa as she departs. "I'll bring some snacks. And dice."