[Seems like he's set to continue taking shit for the rest of the damn day.
He wasn't expecting much more than a scoff and another snap, a few shots at his manhood. He's under no illusions here. That the woman is not in the least impressed by him couldn't be plainer than wheat in a wheat field, and he's not sure he likes her company much either. Not one of their interests intersect, nor do their humors, and their conversations play out like someone was trying to rub a pair of cheese graters against one another. Both irritants, and in such opposing ways.
Then she throws him for a loop. Bodily so. He hits the bookcase like a true chump and suddenly finds all five-foot-six of her boxing him in, breathing husky and outlining many, many ways in which he is failing to live up to her standards. (He'd have a thing or two to swing back at her if this was still on Earth — you want top of the field? You want hard work and cash stacks? Heck, you want someone "different"? How about a trip to Derry, how about you see how shit lined up in a neat stroke of destiny and how effective aping Grandmaster Flash was in making a speedy getaway?)
The woman tops it all off with closing inches between their mouths. And he'd be lying if his pulse wasn't spiking. He didn't like her much, but she was hardly the type you'd roll over and regret seeing Sunday morning. He goes very stiff, certain this is a trick and yet hoping (despicable) that it wasn't.
But of course, it is.
Richie lingers on the bookcase after she's pulled back. Blinking once. Regrouping.
What a cheap shot. He grits his teeth and tuts.]
Shows what you know. James Dean was a prodigy.
[And this has nothing at all to do with him, personally. Of course. He peels off the bookcase and slips his hands into his pockets, rolling his eyes to the heavens.] You're making spending the day with you a real tough sell, Ros. Spare the rod a little, will ya?
[But after her he goes. The books had shuffled their runes into a repeating sequence of bullshit after they poked at them too long, but maybe they'd swapped back to regular text by now.
Who knows. Maybe it wouldn't be a total waste. Wait for him, oh gin bottle, he'll be home for you soon.]
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He wasn't expecting much more than a scoff and another snap, a few shots at his manhood. He's under no illusions here. That the woman is not in the least impressed by him couldn't be plainer than wheat in a wheat field, and he's not sure he likes her company much either. Not one of their interests intersect, nor do their humors, and their conversations play out like someone was trying to rub a pair of cheese graters against one another. Both irritants, and in such opposing ways.
Then she throws him for a loop. Bodily so. He hits the bookcase like a true chump and suddenly finds all five-foot-six of her boxing him in, breathing husky and outlining many, many ways in which he is failing to live up to her standards. (He'd have a thing or two to swing back at her if this was still on Earth — you want top of the field? You want hard work and cash stacks? Heck, you want someone "different"? How about a trip to Derry, how about you see how shit lined up in a neat stroke of destiny and how effective aping Grandmaster Flash was in making a speedy getaway?)
The woman tops it all off with closing inches between their mouths. And he'd be lying if his pulse wasn't spiking. He didn't like her much, but she was hardly the type you'd roll over and regret seeing Sunday morning. He goes very stiff, certain this is a trick and yet hoping (despicable) that it wasn't.
But of course, it is.
Richie lingers on the bookcase after she's pulled back. Blinking once. Regrouping.
What a cheap shot. He grits his teeth and tuts.]
Shows what you know. James Dean was a prodigy.
[And this has nothing at all to do with him, personally. Of course. He peels off the bookcase and slips his hands into his pockets, rolling his eyes to the heavens.] You're making spending the day with you a real tough sell, Ros. Spare the rod a little, will ya?
[But after her he goes. The books had shuffled their runes into a repeating sequence of bullshit after they poked at them too long, but maybe they'd swapped back to regular text by now.
Who knows. Maybe it wouldn't be a total waste. Wait for him, oh gin bottle, he'll be home for you soon.]