. loving someone

[zara atwood]

7AM breakfast shifts were not often favored, though Zara had risen that morning earlier than was necessary, blinking back the clouds from her eyes when she looked at the clock. Her mind was already on high alert. Later that morning, her mind is no better as she taps a pen methodically against her order pad, the dull contact a constant sound. She is trying to keep herself from watching the door, because she shouldn't be that nervous, or bothered, or excited but there is no doubt she is. Her hair is pulled back loosely on the crown of her head, the long ponytail swinging aimlessly between her shoulder blades. She chews on the inside of her lip every time her eyes move to the door, so much so that she will eventually chew the skin raw if she keeps it up. A grin is given to one of her tables as she makes eye contact with a patron, crossing the small restaurant in only a few steps to heed a request for another french press. This is how things have gone for a while, her life filling the moments between work and home with nights out with friends or conversations with her distant sisters. She thinks about Joel, and she thinks about him often, though she thinks about Zelda more and the guilt over it all has more to do with her baby sister. Zara is terrible at holding grudges, and she knows it is so as she feels herself slipping away from the anger she'd had six months prior. She's forgotten how all the cards fell at the end, what portion of events came first. The idea of Joel with her sister was crippling, horrible, and quite perhaps the worse thing she could imagine besides the death of a loved one or other assorted tragedies, but that was her reality, and despite her desire to stay angry, she is incapable of it. Zara pushes down the strainer that separates grounds from coffee and sets it back on the table with a winning Miss USA smile. She could be doing worse than waitressing, as she sees it. There was a gentle comfort in her day to day, though it might not seem fulfilling or terribly engaging to some. She met a lot of people her age, talked to the few tourists that were slowly making their way over the bridges and into her cusp of Brooklyn. She herself lives deeper, much farther into Brooklyn, but she never minded never having to cross the L from the Bedford over to 1st Avenue. She is content, even if time and money are running out and the inevitable move back to Texas looms on the horizon. The thought of living with her parents doesn't scare her exactly, but saddens her. The door pushes open, and she sees Joel standing in the tiny space in front of the hostess stand. Pinkness colors her cheeks and she hastily wipes her hand on a towel, walking over to him. He is bleary-eyed, as she probably is given the hour, and he looks the same as she left him when she went back to Texas. As she reaches him, her hands shake slightly with nerves as she collects a menu. "Hey, I'm glad you came. I'll just put you over here at this table in my section." She turns, the cue for him to follow, setting him down at a small table in the corner that can only seat two. Zara sets down the menu, steps aside for him to sit. Her gaze washes over him. "You look good." notes: awkward zara !! tagged: joel marston

[joel marston]

Like a distressed toddler with a pacifier, Joel was bracing himself for the task ahead with a cigarette and The Big Sleep soundtrack. In turbulent times this is often how he could be found, the cigarette lazily held between two fingers, spare hand loose on the neck of his great dane, his trench coat on and whiskey in a glass before him. The childishness of it might not be immediately apparent, but it was there, as this was a sort of fancy dress. Retreating into as noir a state as possible was Joel's coping mechanism, like a little kid in t-rex costume refusing to eat his vegetables because the king of the dinosaurs wouldn't. Becoming an anonymous detective allowed him to distance himself from his state of near panic, to see everything in greyscale and so give himself over to whatever narrative fate saw fit to provide.  The early sun crept through the blinds, casting a chiaroscuro effect onto the hardwood floor. It was exactly the kind of thing that would usually give him a rush of pure glee and was in fact the whole reason he had swapped out curtains for blinds, but even this was not doing much to calm the rush of nervousness that was racking his body. Hauling himself up from the sofa, his limbs felt as heavy as lead as Schmidt let out a low grumble at being disturbed. "Sorry buddy. Gotta see a lady about a free coffee," he explained, though this did little to mollify the dog. Watching as the giant beast stretched, poured himself from the couch and to the floor, he grinned as it made its way to the bedroom. "Suit yourself." After a quick glance in the mirror to ensure his collar was suitably stiffened, Joel runs a quick hand through blond hair, frowning a little at how tired he looks. Then again, it was 6:30am, and he had slept for maybe three hours at best. It was a walkable distance to the restaurant and he was glad for it, the June air unseasonably lukewarm against his face. Walking was a big stress reliever for Joel, who must have left the warmth of their apartment countless times to walk off his anger when he and Zara had fought. He'd leave livid, blood hot and temper flared, only to take a stroll around the city he loved so much and return a new man, calm and willing to compromise. Unfortunately, this tendency to temporarily walk away was often irritating for the other party, and by the time he returned his ex wife would have let her rage settle into a sullenness, silence falling between them until he managed to coax her back into showing him some affection. He felt a pang in the pit of the stomach as he thought about it, all those times she'd be turned away from him in the bed, quite literally giving him the cold shoulder. Then he'd snake a hand around her waist, whisper his sorries and his compliments into her neck, and just like that he would feel her melt in his arms, body softening and the warmth of her washing over him as she allowed him to pull her in close. The memory left him feeling sick with nostalgia.  Before he can think better of it he's stood outside the restaurant, a lump in his throat and hesitation rooting him to the floor. He hoped she wouldn't glance up and see him like this, stood gormlessly outside her place of work... it was this very thought that prompted him to push open the door, a gust of warm air pulling him into the bijou space. He hears her before he sees her, that mysteriously sexy voice, ever so slightly husky with its faint Texas twang. He almost ran. Instead he forced himself to look at her, so cute in her waitress uniform, so much more authentic than he'd seen her in ages, since his memory was so dominated by beauty queen Zara. He realizes he hasn't said anything, can't say anything, his throat is so dry, and so mutely follows her. He takes his seat and the menu, grateful to have something else to look at. Her compliment forces a steady grin to finally creep across his face. "You've always been a terrible liar. I look like shit, I didn't sleep."  Forcing his eye to meet hers, he tries to ignore the rush of affection that would have floored him had he not already been sat down. "You, on the other hand, do look good. Really good. It's good to see you."  notes: i'm so sorry this sucked, i was mega rushed before work!!