|
  |
The epicenter for cheap eats at great prices, Chinatown is the sort of place a girl goes when she wants piles of food for a dollar. It's also one where being the odd one out — as a redhead, even more conspicuously — and no one particularly looks askance at someone communicating in alternate methods, even if they happen to be written. As far as the predominantly Cantonese population is concerned, Scarlett is a fish out of water and the fact she can pronounce 'congee' or 'dim sum' correctly suggests she spends more time in the likes of Big Wong King — very much a real restaurant name, amended with a grin — to know a quarter of its menu. The size of the menu she warned about: everything up to and probably including shark fin soup is there. The benefit of consigning oneself to awaken early and head out in the mid-afternoon means the usual bombardment by huge family get-togethers is far less likely to happen. "She may not be much to look at," the bohemian says, "but the food is good. What they do to broccoli is magnificent." Sighing in remembered joys of previous days, she plods towards the entrance. They aren't that far from a subway, her preferred means to get around, and then she glances towards the door. "Meets with approval? Shall we go in?"
*
Looking over the location, Blackagar nods. He had met at the prescribed subway station in Chinatown, patient and dressed in blue jeans with a T-shirt hanging out etched with an image of the Statue of Liberty, really a tourist type appearance. When Scarlett had arrived, a smile had appeared and his hands had come out of his pockets to reveal he was wearing gloves over his hands; not so much to combat winter but rather to offer her a hand without forcing her to be the one aware of it. So the walk was a bit more comfortable with him, casual and his nod of approval of the restaurant was given before moving to open the door for her. Under his arm he has brought his slate and some chalk with him.
*
The redhead is not in any way, shape or form dressed to be 'usual,' not with the minidress in blocked black and white, long sleeves belling over her elbows and a gauzy scarf wrapped around her throat. She's so chic she probably makes fashion designers cry. Her gloves are present, about to be stripped off upon entrance, but there the gentleman has gone and given her a chance to worry about other things. She takes his hand, then, after ducking under his arm into the restaurant. "They do vegetarian and fish dishes, too, if you need them. Almost anything seems to be good unless you want to be truly adventurous. There are a few things I have never eaten." Having a cast iron constitution certainly helps, too, given she's near impossible to poison. They can easily find a table, slipping through the settled diners.
*
The guiding through the scatter crowds leads to a booth rather than a table, a respite from prying eyes which may inquire as to a man writing rather than speaking, even in such a location as this. Letting Scarlett settle into the booth first, he follows suit upon the other side and when the server approaches orders for himself some water, sake for the table of course, tea for the table as well before allowing her to get what she wishes early. Waiting for such, he ends up writing on his tablet and showing it to her. «I have had much Asian food before, I am looking forward to trying the American styled food however. You have been here often?»
*
Squeezing into the booth, Scarlett slides easily along the vinyl bench and leans up against the wall. A napkin ends up spread in her lap, and her sleeves rolled up a little, largely on the curse of the wide bells. It helps not to get sauce on them, naturally. The dark tea will follow, soon enough, and then dumped, poured, and distributed into two small cups from a very tall metal pot. She hands the menu to him, her own assessed with considerable care. "You have? Excellent, then. This one is authentic Cantonese — Hong Kong, at least. The noodles are delicious, especially when sprigged with those tasty little mushrooms. Should we do small servings or big plates?"
*
Looking at the server, Blackagar points at a few items on the menu again before looking over at Scarlett and jotting down on his slate, «I am a large fan of multiple small plates of variety to share, if you do not mind of course.» Adventurous in food is never a bad thing in his book. The items he selected lead to him setting down the menu, napkin in his lap, and leaning back to study Scarlett in silence for a bit, much like one would a painting. Of course he does wait until the server has departed to make such an observation of focus out of decency.
*
The redhead will be the one happy to make the requests, if only because flipping convention on its head is the way to go. The server is going to have a bemused look on his face and he can strictly deal with the change. "Naturally. Let me start writing these down, and we can simply hand him all the numbers we want." The lilt to her voice plies a note of amusement while she trails her fingers down the curve of the menu, and fishes about in her purse for another pen. One of the napkins works just fine to scribble out several selections, and she will hand it back to Blackagar to let him choose a few. Girl likes variety, to be sure, and steamed buns are high on the list along with noodles and more. These will be sent off and received very quickly; the kitchen apparently works at half of light speed just because they can. Behold the selection of tasty goodness! Noodles, small dishes of egg rolls, and fried veggies, and more.
If she is conscious that she is studied, Scarlett does not protest. On the contrary, she accepts that as commonplace — redhead, they stand out — and not precisely bothersome. If he has a comment to make, he will make it. Being the strong, silent type has unfair advantages, no?
*
Well, he is the strong silent type by rote of existence rather than divine plan to intimidate or bring about the aura of such. But it does offer benefits to be certain. With the ordering complete, he pours himself a bit of tea in one glass, sake in the other but begins with the tea in sipping it. After a bit he writes down on his slate, turning to hold for her to read. «This may come as a surprise, or perhaps not, but I have never been on a date before. I have read about such things and seem them in films. But I'm willing to venture that narrative fiction is more elaborate than real life.»
*
See, now he has a divine plan to be the sort of person Mom warns you about. Right? Scarlett, the soulless ginger, is another example of nature fulfilling a promise. She sips her tea and peeks over at the written text. Eyebrows arch slightly. "Never. Ah, first time for everything. Plenty of young ladies never go out on them either until reaching marriageable age, as though their fathers fear they might have a thought in their heads." Sticky point? Only slightly. Bohemian values are differently weighted than others, at least in this city and this era. "You have seen them in films and books and magazines. Perhaps we ought to see how they measure up. Elaborate? Is there supposed to also be a bit of dancing, a club, being shot at by villains, interrupting arms smuggling perhaps? Intriguing, this notion. Go ahead and tell me what you think."
*
A smirk etches over his features and slowly he writes before turning it back to Scarlett. There is no denying the playful glint in his eyes as he shows it to her. «The most recent one I can remember involved a city, the Nazi's, a piano player and of course some line about 'all of the gin joints in all the world.'» Waiting, he pauses and grins to himself further before writing on the slate, «Maybe it should be of all the parks in all the cities?» Letting her read, he sets to work snatching one of the buns.
*
"Good, I'm only up against Casablanca, and setting a mold of Lauren bloody Bacall. You know I am doomed? There is no way I can be a blonde legitimately." Going and stealing the shape of a blonde, that's one thing, but not naturally themselves. The server already comes by with the first of their orders, two bowls of hot and sour soup, two eggrolls, and a small lump of shrimp fried rice. Plates are set down from a tray, and the condiments distributed easily enough. Chopsticks in a paper sleeve for each join forks and knives bundled up neatly, and then the man wanders off to deliver more off his tray to the various other tables and booths. Patrons aren't too interested except in their own cares. "I think you have a good quote. Acceptable. Though it does not give me a good idea of the standard you expect us to meet now, since I am no expert in this."
*
The furrow of his brow and curl of lips hints at a smile which would equate to laughter for him. Writing out on the slate he shows her, «I think my expectations are simply to enjoy the company I'm with. But if I say so, would it be too cliché?» The sentiment offered he quirks an eyebrow then reaches for an egg roll to pick up and take a bite of. «I am sorry that I have to write to speak with you. But on the bright side, at least I'm not whispering?»
*
He is not trying to make her laugh. Blackagar Boltagon, improv comedian, has a bright future for the three seconds he's on television, right? With the spoon of hot and sour soup halfway to her lips when he starts writing, Scarlett reads the paper and then looks at him, a fatal mistake, because apparently he has the capacity to smile and warn with robust assurance that humour exists. A stifled noise almost approaches a snicker, and then she hastily looks away anywhere to avoid breaking into a soft laugh. "Why would you apologize?" Sorry, slate of delight, how romantic. "Claim you are a poet and find chalk dust stimulating to both conversations and the creative process. In fact, you could hint broadly it's a famous traditional medicine. An aphrodisiac, balances the lymph system, and gives good skin tone. That's why you want it all over your hands, it prevents wrinkles." He's probably going to toss the eggroll at her, and even with her eyes shut tight, she might just dodge the danger. "When asked to whisper sweet nothings, does that truly mean whisper nothing? Assuming you have heard of that before."
*
Her prediction follows suit as he picks up a bit of bun, curls it in his fingers, and tosses it in her general direction with a teasing grin on his lips while doing so. But even as he does so, he writes on the slate, «Are all of those things about chalk true? It may explain a few things. And my whispering of nothings tend to shake mountains so probably best to keep it at literal nothings.» He finishes the writing then turns it, quickly and writes again. «So you know at least some of who I am. Now I want to know who you are.»
*
Scarlett snatches the bun out of mid-air, given the need to defend herself from food thrown at her. The server will be by any time to clear bowls and plates, and add more, this time silver needle noodles served with roast pork and chicken. Minced beef rice crepes are displayed with some flourish, and he raises his eyebrows at the pair, before scuttling away. Congee - rice porridge, a specialty of Hong Kong - will appear any time now, her choice of shrimp fairly standard for the course.
"Then what would you know of me? I do not use chalk as well as that, and my whispers do no more than whisper," says the redhead, picking up her chopsticks and looking at the bun. "Whatever are we to say? Prattling on about myself is unforgiveable, I have to make it at least interesting." A grin is smothered behind the contour of a bun she takes a bite from, and sinks back into the booth, almost lazy about it.
*
Writing on the slate, Blackagar smiles and then holds it up to Rogue to let her read. While she does, he sets to work on some of the new food, taking samples of everything and even pausing a moment to poke with his own chopsticks at hers. It would seem the man is in some kind of humored, playful mood while eating. «Every story has a beginning, middle, and end. Right now, we are at a sorts of a present, so perhaps the beginning? And it is not prattling if I asked to know, is it? Unless you desire to remain a mystery?»
*
The chopsticks are simply bamboo, disposable, like so much is nowadays. Scarlett wields them fairly well, experienced in picking up vegetables and noodles with them. She makes a reasonable show of eating the noodles without being slapped in the face by an errant end or a bit of sauce, though she has a napkin at the ready to spare her black and white dress, and especially the wide sleeves. It takes some nimbleness to rescue broccoli from ignominious demise upon the carpet when it slithers away. Her thumb is the victim there, wounded by a light brown sauce she has to dab away rather than lick clean. She has some manners. In fact, a great many of them. "I am a badly written poem, a story dropped midstream. You shall find me a disappointment, for if there is a beginning, I cannot tell you what it is so clearly as I can the present. There is a girl who was not content with her lot in life, so she came to New York to study. Yet the school she wanted to see did not accept women, not easily, so it was necessary to prove myself in a less academically rigorous and more socially inclined school, a place where smart young ladies learn and are put through their paces to prove them worthy of the challenge an Ivy League school might bring. I spent two years thrashing out my future in Barnard College, and when I was done, stepped out into my first year at Columbia. Women there are still an oddity; it's not like NYU, where they have been for decades. Yet I spearheaded my future in certain classes, and by dint of luck, I ended up a professor for a while." She clicks her chopsticks, prepared to duel and defend herself. "No one remembers that, nor should they. It was a gambit with its own ends."
*
«So have you traveled to these places you wanted to visit? The places we spoke of or simply these realms?» Blackagar writes for her, playfully batting at the chopsticks with his own while working to get some of the vegetables for himself. «For the gap between a student and a teacher seems quite large for what you are. And I know you are more than what you would put on at times.» He smiles at that, there's a knowing look. He may not be socially aware of many things but his eyes are quite focused on some things, particularly at this moment, her.
*
"I have seen some realms. Not all, perhaps four of the nine. Five, actually." Memories of Hel are hard to ignore, especially the darkness that shadows it. Her gaze slips away over the diners and focuses upon the round wall, as though she might walk through it and end up not in New York, but some mystical city buried in a mountain range, or a hidden realm beyond reach. "The gap for professor and student is large, though I have acquired sundry knowledge in my limited time that helps. Were I to attempt to teach the course year in, year out? Oh, they would probably notice, but for the time I had, it's not entirely so bad." Her hair brushed off her face by her palm, she catches the look her way. No, she's not preening; she rarely does. But the smile matched to winter jade eyes, lost of their luminous auroral hues, is not unkind. Glancing to Blackagar's slate, she shakes her head. "I am many things, some of them myself, this is true. I am not always happy with what or who I am, but then who is perfectly content?"
*
«I don't think any can ever be perfectly content, but perhaps for a time. I suppose being content with oneself is the biggest challenge. Even at my time of greatest peace it did not mean I was truly content . I was always wondering.» He pauses then bites his lip before a shake of his head and he writes more. This time it was shyly written, almost embarrassed. Like if he had spoke it would be a with a coy, downcast look. Sliding the slate over so she could read it, he focuses on the food. «The way I know that you are more than you would put on is because I have never been drawn to anyone who was simply what they were on the surface.»
*
She has to lean over the table, reading the slate. "I could be a terrible disappointment. I am just a flighty, silly redhead with enormous dreams and little to ground her, sometimes, and I have no intentions of misleading you upon that front. I am only a little tricky, not Chinese finger trap levels of devious. Those sorts forever leave someone doubtful of trust, no?" She rests her forearm on the table and reaches for one of the remaining egg rolls, cracking it in half to reveal the shredded vegetable contents, and then puts it into her mouth. Thoughtful regard flits over him; she isn't shy in the least about meeting someone's eyes and assessing them. "Now I feel like an enigmatic Venus flytrap. Come closer, get lost, oops, you fell in." The very notion is ludicrous, and it makes her laugh behind her hand.
*
A bite of his lower lip but, Blackagar shakes his head at her. «No . I don't believe it.» He writes and then bites the other side of his lip and continues. «If you are just a flighty silly redhead, and that is all you were, it is still intriguing enough. I am sorry, it is more blunt that I usually am but for the first time in my life, I've found someone to talk to who isn't interested in anything other than just being. I find that rare, because it matches myself. So yes, you are a fly trap. But am I a fly?»
*
"You are probably more of a peregrine falcon. No one hears you as you fly about at the high reaches, and then you stoop and swoop down, nailing the unsuspecting plant or prey. They are not quite as silent as owls, but then it seems more appropriate to me you are a raptor. Not quite an eagle, though. They have a certain nobility but you haven't the nose for it." A judgment from another well versed in wild animals at random around the world picks one that seems to fit. "Whereas I feel more like a hummingbird, sometimes, though a giant one. I have to keep moving. Though I suppose I'm an ibis, according to Egyptian lore, given the taste for knowledge and Thoth. But let's just stick with calling me by another name." Her fingers dance lightly around a bowl and then the server is back to drop off congee, more delicious noodles, and several dumplings filled by chopped pork and beef. Mmm. Food.
*
«So I do not get to be the wise owl or the noble eagle? Just the falcon that hunts the unsuspecting?» Blackagar writes and grins at her, adding to the notes, «Does this mean I'm stalking you as a prey? Or courting you as a peer?» He looks at the beef and pork filled dumplings ,passing those buy for the noodles and other items not containing meat, again lending evidence to his eating habits.
*
"The falcon is quite honourable, no? The king of birds, a bird only acceptable for kings. Eagles might apply for Mongolia, but the rest of the world reserved hawks for the best of people." Scarlett wields her chopsticks to pinch several noodles and bring them to her mouth. Next up to be served, crab Rangoon in a quartet, and three plates gone, more of those crispy wontons introduced to the fryer and flirting with heavy sesame oil in a small cup. Her gaze flickers to the slate, and she adds, "They wouldn't approach anyone who was not noble in character and nature, not the sort with a crown or the birthright. Not all of us can claim to be properly royal or noble, and falconry is supposed to be a sport for the hoity-toity." The bohemian doesn't have such aspirations, and her birth may be as common as they come, or hidden. It doesn't make a difference in the great republic of fifty states and no foreign potentate stitched into their citizenship oath. "Having never been courted that I can recall, that may not be a question I can answer. You're on your own with that one. I do not think you are stalking me. Now if we met fifteen thousand feet up by 'chance,' I'd have to reassess."
*
Blackagar's nose scrunches in near laughter as he shakes his head, «I did mean stalking as one would like an animal, not stalking in the sense of following you around. However, the poor choice of words does make for a rather amusing image.» The words are given to Scarlett but then he is setting his chopsticks down and leaning back a bit, perhaps reaching the point of fullness or at least taking a pacing rest in eating. «It is nice to just be someone, and not be considered as 'someone'.» That is underlined to add emphasis to the word.
*
Tea is poured then, and the bohemian helps herself to the small, handleless cup. A sip gives her refreshment, cause to consider the lay of the land between them. "Who is to say you are not that owl? Lurking behind bushes, perched on a roof, just happening to circle at midday? I never put past a bird the ability to be devious. It's all in the beak, you see." She taps her cheekbone lightly, and then straightens her spine, adopting that idealized posture of a practicing yoga aficionado. Or a governess is walking about and she's unprepared for the backlash. "In all seriousness, though, you are what you wish to be, in a great many ways. I appreciate you being forthright. That's rare enough to be refreshing."
*
«Forthright, is that so?» Blackagar replies on the slate then goes on to ask, «Then would it be too forthright of me to ask if you would care, after we finish here, to perhaps take a walk?» It sounds so innocent but there's a little cheeky grin on his lips that hints, just barely, of perhaps something behind the request. He lifts the sake and pours himself a small glass to sip upon.
*
Folding up her napkin into triangles, Scarlett sets it upon the tabletop. "I shall go and settle up the bill. There should want any to go, they have cartons to carry away whatever you might happen to want." Who knows where the gentleman lives, and where he prefers to eat? Could well be an enjoyable pastime for him to throw rice at pigeons. "Fetch your things, such as they are, and we can meet up by the door, yes?" Let that be incentive for him to hasten along or wait for the server to stick everything in cartons for takeaway, nomnomnom.
*
Blackagar motions with his hand some and shakes his head, reaching down for his wallet and producing an envelope that he hands to Rogue, within it is a collection of bills. Writing on the slate, he does so quickly for her. «It is improper to have you pay. Besides, I do have a kingly stipend to cover such things.» It does to stand to reason he probably has a large amount of 'assets' for such things. Even as such, he does motion for the server to move along with preparations.
*
Money could be something they argue over, but arguments are not proper and Scarlett, if nothing else, abides by a canon of not arguing in public or undertaking deviations in manners. Oh, behind closed doors, perhaps; there is a time and a place to riot, but it's certainly not in the middle of a restaurant. "Thank you," replaces 'Are you certain?' or a host of other such inanities. Clearly Blackagar is if he's handing out cash like candy and hardly worried about his stipend. Maybe Attilan has a bank account solely for restaurants. Who knows? She can scarcely get one. Nonetheless, she takes the money and flits off to the front counter to settle up, gesturing to the table and then back to the server. Exchanges are made, the cash register chiming, bills and coinage taken in turn. By the time they're done, it's fair to say Blackagar could be turning cartwheels or carrying a paper bag full of cartons.
*
The food has been gathered, but he shows Rogue his slate, «For those without.» and then indicates the leftovers. Reaching out with one of his gloved hands, he holds it out for her while hoisting the bags in the other. The slate has been tucked under the food arm. His expression wears a 'shall we' look on it as he waits for her, pleasant smile on his face and that near always present playful glint to his eyes.
*
"We shall go and distribute food upon our walk? I see no trouble with that." Scarlett does not wear anything resembling a coat, just the mod dress and the scarf, her gloves serviceable for holding the cold at bay. Chances are winter is a lost cause where she is involved, not immune to the frostbite, but certainly unlikely to take any actual injury from whatever nature throws at her.
Short of a sentient giant tree, anyways.
Heavy artillery from the sky isn't likely to take the form of lightning bolts or ice crystals, anyways. "Let's be off. Do you want to roam through Tribeca or do you have a particular place in mind?"