Difference between revisions of "Log:Awe and Shock"

23 November 2017

Elliot returns her job application to Cat-22 where she meets a dazzling and glamorous woman who haunts the place and seems to have the key to CB Alexander's volatile moods.

Cat-22 Collective

CB isn't here at the moment and you know what that means? No cops outside. Well, maybe one car still lingers just /because/ but there isn't the typical angry-hornet swarm that usually finds a reason to make their presence known 'round these parts. Therefore, it makes for a relatively peaceful evening here at Cat-22. People come. People go. Coffee and baked goods are enjoyed by (just about) everyone.

The door opens and a gust of frigid air pushes in a bundled up form. Hat. Scarf. Mittens. Coat. Boots. The whole New England package -- although, it should be said, none of the pieces look to be particularly current from a fashion standpoint. Drab. Threadbare. Secondhand. /At best/. She -- it's a she -- pulls off her hat and mittens, letting the latter drop; they're the sort that are attached to a string that runs up one coat sleeve and down the other. So when she removes them, they just dangle there at her cuffs. Shaggy haired and plain-faced, she approaches the counter and fishes a folded piece of paper from out of her bag.

"Hello Mason," she greets with an awkward smile that flashes a couple of dimples in her rosy, cold-stained cheeks. "Here is the application that CB asked me to fill out." She unfolds it. Smoothes it out. Slides it over. Hands grip onto the edge of the counter, fingers drumming lightly as the guy looks it over.

"--of course I agree, the Kenyan peabody is much superior as a pour over, for... Sure..."

Franklyn was, up until this very moment, oblivious to Elliot's presence. Leaning on the cafe counter, dressed in an assortment of cozy layers of jersey and knitwear that make up a very boho-chic autumnal ensemble. Don't keep her from looking waifish and quite possibly over-caffeinated, as the Mortal girl looks away from Mason, and over to Elliot.

Or around Elliot? Franky is quite possibly sizing the other woman up over the rim of her coffee cup - not harshly judgemental, although the RBF may suggest otherwise; just... Curious. So curious.

"Isn't it weird, right?" Oh. Now Franky is talking to Elliot. "I mean, the application process - fill in your name, check the boxes, try and convince strangers you're legitimate." Leaning over the counter, Franklyn tries to straight up read the form as she chatters on. "Like, how can we ever possibly distill like, life's experience down into a few hundred words on one sheet of paper? Besides, it's not like they ever ask the -important- things, right?"

So. Elliot met Mason before. They bonded over a cake emergency and figuring what CB meant by 'tool' in regards to icing (for the record, they decided on: spatula). But Franklyn? She doesn't know this person. And she looks so .. stylish. I mean, not that Elliot knows anything about fashion but she's pretty sure that this woman? This one right here? Fashionable. And the way she talks? Just right off the bat to a stranger? Holy shit.

Elliot swallows.

She pulls in her lower lip.

She slooooowly reaches for her application.

Once she has it in her possession again, she folds it back in half so that her info is not visible. Because that is totally normal. Laying her hands over it, she just stares at Franklyn wide-eyed. How. How to. How to respond? Um.

"Yes."

Pause.

Smile. Dimpled smile. The paper of the application crinkles slightly as her fingers curl a bit.

"Weird."

BE COOL. BE NORMAL. YOU ARE A REGULAR PERSON, JUST LIKE EVERYONE ELSE. HOW MUCH TIME HAS PASSED? HAS IT GOTTEN WEIRD? SHIT.

"My name is Elliot."

Franklyn is a known unknown: a floral scented stranger who's gotten herself all up in Elliot's business, lickety-split. No hesitation, no pause -- well, not at first; because as Franky realises that Elliot might look like a shabby outsider art student but also has the, uh, social skills of a shabby outsider art student? Pedal is taken off the metal, and the Fellow Perfectly Normal Regular Person slows her roll.

When Franklyn smiles back at Elliot, there is none of that well-trained stage school dazzle or hyper-social predatoriness, no. Toned down, Franky just looks... Like a weary girl in good clothes, lowering her coffee slowly and setting it aside.

"Hi Elliot. I'm Franklyn." Hand is lifted, chipped beetle-shell green manicure glinting as she wiggles her fingers in greeting. No more is she nosily looking at that application. "Now, so I don't like totally over-extend my amazing psychic powers, I'm gonna just like, assume you've just arrived in the city? Or've been like, hiding somewhere - not that I know everyone or anything, but like ohmygod, there's only like... Five thousand people here? And I am -painfully- good at remembering faces..."

And now she stares, just a tad. Does Elliot's face look familiar? Franklyn... Lifts her coffee cup again, half-hiding her own. "...You the new barista?"

The slowed roll is greatly appreciated and has an immediate effect -- Elliot's shoulders shake off the tension that had gathered there and the OH GOD smile of frozen panic melts into something more genuine. It's still an awkward thing, hanging there crooked on her features, but it's no longer composed of her lips peeled away from her teeth and there is no denying: the dimples are fucking adorable. "It is nice to meet you, Franklyn," she says and when the other girl lifts her hand, it gets stupid. Because .. because .. well, she thought she was lifting it to shake. So the shaggy-haired blonde goes in to meet her because, as mentioned, she is completely normal and normal people respond to social cues in totally normal ways.

Franklyn's fingers wiggle.

Elliot ends up sort of grabbing them.

Oh god.

She tries to recover and turn it into a kind of fist-bump thing she saw on the street once and then just pulls her arm back, swiping her hand through her hair nervously. What follows is a strained giggle, like air escaping the stretched opening of a balloon. Or a fart sneaking out in church. Recover! Move the conversation along and maybe she won't notice what you just did to her fingers, you weirdo! "Yeah, I just moved here. No, not the barista. I don't do customer service jobs," -- shocker -- "..just going to bus tables, wash dishes, mop floors, clean the bathroom. You know, stuff like that." A janitor. She's a janitor. This all comes out in a rapid stream of PLEASE DON'T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THE STUPID HAND THING jibber-jabber but then she pauses. Blinks. Did she say .. amazing psychic powers?

Smiling - they're smiling at one another, and by jove, this is a /genuine/ moment. It could be the dimples, but something has Franklyn looking all gently curious without /prying/ or anything - like she doesn't need anything, besides a moment to appreciate... what? The adorableness in the world? Seeing another human being? That childish scrawl on the application? Some half-stored memory growing dusty in the garret of her mind?

Then again, Franklyn may have momentarily stepped out into some side-wing of her mind palace, because she is Distracted watching Elliot's face -- so much so, that she doesn't clock in on that awkward hand gesture until her wiggling fingers are grabbed.

Blink. Back to reality.

Then there's that fist-bump, and that weird giggle, and Franklyn is... Trying to be polite? Through thoroughly ignoring the faux pas, in exchange for swooping /her own/ hair out of her eyes, and cooly lifting that coffee cup back up to her mouth. Awkward? Her? Never. Just smile, listen, nod.

"Oh riiight - rightrightright, yeah." Play along, don't point out the obvious - why crush such a spirit? There's nothing for Franklyn to obviously gain in doing so! Instead she gives Elliot another once over, squints, and leans forward. She is oblivious - probably? - to the blink re: psychic powers. And yet, Franky's tone has become conspiratorial: "...Why, here though? Really?"

Now, Elliot isn't so socially oblivious that she thinks she actually got away with that, that Franklyn didn't notice that she grabbed her fingers. Trying to cover it up was a panicked reaction that was in no way thought-through; it was dork-reflex. Now that it is over, she is left with the realization of what she did and how she tried to recover from it (a fist bump? /really/?! and that giggle .. oh my gaaaawd). She will no doubt obsess over it but, for now, she's just grateful that Franklyn is letting her get away with it unscathed.

      Will she tell her friends about this?

      Will she laugh about it with Mason once she leaves?

      Will she-- .. stop it, think about this later.

Huffing out a little breath, her smile grows wider and her dimples deepen, her dark eyes scrunching up into near non-existence. "It seemed as good a place as any, right?" Gringringringrin .. oh, who is she kidding? Doe-eyes soften into a kind of wounded vulnerability and Elliot's smile fades down to a flicker. Bashful now, she rolls a shoulder in a slow shrug.

"Honestly? It's the furthest ticket I could afford to buy at the bus station." So. She knows no one, has no family, that's what that means. She drops her arms to her sides and curls her hands back, clutching the mittens that are hanging there at her cuffs.

"Your nails are really, really pretty, you know," she says with complete and utter honesty. Because they are. So shiny. So green. So lovely.

Exactly: how mean is Franklyn? Can she be trusted? What's going on behind that expressive face of hers? Because Franklyn =looks= cool and calm and collected, but what if it's all a ruse? A ruse, to what end?

Coffee is finished, and the cup is finally set down for good. It frees Franklyn up to watch Elliot as she speaks; nodding slowly, but there's only the hint of a smile on Franky's face - and that is more concerned or sympathetic than outright pleased. Still. Friendly enough - her eyes brightening a bit at the mention of honesty.

"Aah -- right! Yeah, well... To be honest? I'm only here because..." Oh! Is that a compliment? Real Talk is shelved, and Franklyn ahs! Holding her hands up out in front, between her and Elliot. Really, up close? That beetle-shell green manicure is a mess - nibbled on and chipped, her fingers stained with tobacco, cuticles looking raw. Hasn't anyone told her how to stop a hangnail?

Maybe Franky feels weird about it, because the reanimation happens again and fingers wiggle as she looks back up at El, "Hey! Were you here for the first snow, the other day? Yanno, families over in Tamarack Falls, they go and clip holly sprigs to give to their children, when the first snow falls. It's supposed to protect them, you know? I don't see how, exactly..."

Look! Two women, standing by the counter: it's Franky and Elliot. They... Look like perfectly normal, regular, totally together people.

It's late. Who is working here right now? Well not C.B. Alexander, that's for damn sure. He's just stopping by because he left one of his notebooks here, and so he appears from the back room, searching for it behind the counter. Stupid hands won't stop shaking. Oh look, there's a bottle of cheap bourbon behind this counter, too. Hmm. His hands pause over that...then keep roaming.

It's only when he hears Frank's voice that C.B. suddenly looks up, squinting from under the brim of his Red Sox cap. "Frank. What're you doing..." And there's his almost-new employee, too. "Elliot. You're back." Brow is all furrowed now as he takes his cap off and quickly rakes his hand through his hair before plopping it down on his head again.

Even all chipped and nibbled, her nails are still a wonder. How could she even begin to tell Franklyn that there was nothing like nail color where she came from? How could she even admit that since she's been 'out', she hasn't had enough money to spend on even a cheap-o bottle of polish for herself because she's had to prioritize stuff like .. food? She can't. She won't. So Elliot just smiles and leans in to look at them more closely, lightly taking hold of Frank's hands and holding them in her palm.

"Amazing," she breathes, a touch of awe brushed over her soft voice. "Your fingers look like bugs."

It's a compliment.

You know what she's getting at, right? Right.

Elliot lets go of the other woman's hands when she starts to talk about the first snow and families, holly sprigs and children. There is a wistful quality to her expression and she listens to what Frank is saying as if she were telling her a fairy tale. "I-.." But then a wild CB appears!

The shaggy haired woman straightens up and there's a folded piece of paper on the counter -- she slides it towards him when he pops back up from his hunt for .. not-bourbon. "I filled it out." Beat. "The application."

She beams with pride.

Franklyn can be an awful person - but she can also be a good one. That vulnerability in Elliot? The earnest awe at the nails Franky may possibly find embarrassing? It has her looking at her fellow presumably-Mortal-woman with gentle enthusiasm. Aw. She's flattered. "Thank you, I'm so glad you noticed - you know, there was this dress they made in the Victorian times? For an actress named Ellen Terry? She was so amazing, and played Lady Macbeth at the London Lyceum in like, ohmygod, eighteen-eighty-eight or something? Sooo long ago -- anyway, they made her this dress, this beautiful dress, out of thousands of green beetle shells, and so every time I go---"

Eeep! Rapid chatter of an explanation stops, as Franky hears C.B., turning to look at him. Cue rapid flurry of expression - shock! delight! concern! guilt! - then she swallows, attempts a smile, and gestures to Elliot. "Having coffee, talking! Ho-- what are you doing?" Quick glance over: shaking hands? Noted.

"Ah, so you two've met? Excellent -- Ceebs, I didn't realise you were hiring... Elliot's application looks, promising." Franky smiles. She is being generous. El's application looks like a kid wrote it. "Good. Right?"

C.B. probably looks a little -- off, to Frank who sees him frequently. Paler than usual, and a little more wild-eyed. "We're always hiring," he says, faint irritation in his voice. Then he snatches up the paper Elliot provided and pockets it without a second glance. "I'll get this to the Committee tomorrow. Where the fuck is my goddamn notebook?!" The miniature hurricane that is currently C.B. storms into the backroom. Voices are heard briefly, and then he storms right back out again, frantically digging behind the counter as he mutters to himself.

Franklyn is amazing. She knows so many things and when she speaks, it just comes out so effortlessly. Elliot simply stares at her, taking in every word she says. Victorian times. Ellen Terry. Lady Macbeth. London Lyceum. "They made a dress out of beetle shells?!" she breathes softly around an audible 'wooooooow'. One can almost sense her mind being blown.

But! Enough of that! CB's irritation brings her crashing down to earth and Elliot is back to clutching at her mittens anxiously. She makes a strangled little sound when he just stuffs her application into his pocket, the paper getting all crumbled in the process. She .. she .. she spent so long laboring over that thing! She had to sound out some of the words before writing them down; she tried extra hard to make her penmanship look decent (don't tell her that it, well... just don't tell her that it doesn't). She even bothered her next door neighbor to look over her work, make sure everything was filled out correctly.

She deflates.

Slightly.

A few seconds pass though and she perks herself back up, smile firmly in place, and the woman is coming round the counter. "What does it look like?" she asks, crouching down as she starts to help Grouchy McGrouchface.

Meanwhile, Franklyn's attention is fractured -- she looks to Elliot at that soft 'wow!', and gives her a quick, serious smile and nod. Wow, indeed. Franky's mind must've been so blown at the beetle shell dress phenomena, she now walks around nibbling at the facsimiles pained on her nails. However...

Theatre talk is being shelved, because Franklyn is looking nervously from Elliot to C.B. -- the deflating effect of the crumpling paper has on El is missed, because Franky is watching the grumpy Author with keen-eyed observance. She frowns - froooowns - as he marches out into the back, "...Don't worry about it."

Who's Franky saying that to? Elliot? Herself? Because it's too quiet for C.B. to hear, probably.

When he comes back out, Franklyn is already on the move - she is no worker/owner, but she strides behind the counter like she owns the land the building is set on, reaching a hand out towards C.B., "Yeah, what Elliot said -- which one is it? The moleskien, or?... And here, check all your pockets and ask, like, if you were a notebook, where would you be..."

"Alright! Alright! STOP IT, BOTH OF YOU!" Full on shouting now, with C.B. flapping his hands. Good thing Elliot can't see the arcs of lightning sparking out from them and going everywhere. "I. Will. Find. It. Okay? Go back to talking about your beetle dresses or whatever other amazing fucking thing you're wowing each other over and LEAVE ME ALONE!"

His booted foot comes out to attack the first thing back here, which is actually the stool he usually sits on. He knocks it over. Yep, you sure showed that stool, Ceebabes. The author pauses, takes his hat off again, shoves his hand through his hair, and kicks the stool a number of times. "FUCK FUCK FUCK!" There's a breath. "I'll be right back." Into the back room he goes, and then there's the sound of a slamming door and more shouting.

Um. Well. This is volatile. Elliot is already back here, see. Crouched down. Delicately picking through various things tucked away on the shelves behind the counter, the mittens at her cuffs thwumping softly against things as she goes. And CB goes BOOM. She kind of curls tight -- head tucked, shoulders curved inward, armed crossed over her noggin -- and leans away from where he is spazzing out. Luckily for her, he kicks the stool /away/ from her but she cannot say that was by design. Probably just luck. The woman keeps her eyes closed and maintains this duck and cover posture as he assaults the offending seat.

Only when he storms off does she open one eye.

Then the other.

And picks up her head and looks around.

She looks at Franklyn with wide, wide, wiiiiide eyes but does. not. say. a. word. No comment. No questions. Instead? She just resumes looking for the notebook he's lost. She finds a red one. And a black one. And one that doesn't even have a cover anymore.

Standing up, she lays them out on the counter -- side by side by side. Then? Then she goes over and picks up the stool. Elliot looks it over, checking to see if it is still sound, and then rights it. Places it where it originally stood.

Once this is all accomplished, she clears her throat softly and glances around. Nervous? Maybe a little. Confused? Maybe a lot.

Franklyn holds her hands up at C.B.: palms out, no weapons -- but also no words, because he's shouting and Franky is just /staring/ at him, her expression oddly... Distant for a moment. Can she see the lightning? Because her eyes are glazed, but mostly focused on his face. Mostly. The rest? Who knows where she's looking.

Probably somewhere gloomy, if that subtle frown is anything to go by.

Insults aside, it's not until C.B. starts kicking things that Franklyn moves again - side stepping, graceful as anything, as if to block Elliot's view or, ah. something. She hasn't even realised the other woman is pulling a Bert the Turtle -- she just does it as if by rote. Hands still up, mouth opening to say something, but he's gone too fast.

"..." Franklyn lowers her arms, and looks over to Elliot -- giving her, well... a look. It's secretive, and silent, and complicated. Following suite, she starts to move - looking elsewhere by the side of the espresso machine, underneath the counter, by the edge of the bin. Then El's got the stool upright again, and Franky looks back over to her.

Meanwhile, yeah, C.B's been shouting in the background.

"...He's..." How can Franky put this delicately? She cannot. It's got her blushing; embarrassed and frustrated. "...A person."

Smooth.

The alleged person known as C.B. returns, a few minutes later. There is sweat on his brow; there is also a book in his hand. Or rather, a black Moleskine. He shakes it at the pair. His breathing is labored. "Found it." The author makes a full circle, then gives the pair a pained sort of rictus. "Enjoy your evening." Aaaaaaaand then he's heading right back out the back room again. Another door slams, but it sounds farther away.

He's a person. This is true. Elliot lifts up her chin, pauses there and then drops her head into an uncertain nod. What? Is she not sold on the idea that CB is a person? No, he is. But .. there is more explanation there. There's more to it. And she will supply the further details.

"He's a loud person," she says with a somewhat nervous smile, the expression quickly -- QUICKLY -- disappearing when the man reappears. Who knows what will set him off! The stool knows what it did; if he starts kicking Franklyn or Elliot, will they know what they did?

She keeps her features neutral and static as he moves past, the woman standing stock still with only her eyes following him as he leaves.

"Yes, yes he is a loud person -- but it's, it's just... It's nothing you did; it's..." Oh! Franky's reply is cut short.

Franklyn, to her credit, looks relieved when C.B. comes back with the notebook in his hand. It's short-lived, since he looks like he's going to pull a one-eighty and escape again. "Hey!"

Pause, then Franklyn tries that again, clearing her throat and putting on a softer tone, "Ceebee, here -- where did you find it? I think we're..." She looks to Elliot, then back to C.B. - frowning.

Stubborn.

"...Man, c'mon." Sudden tone shift - soft, but more serious, as Franky shakes her head. "You can be in a bad mood if you want, that's fine - but like, really? What's the problem? Because... We didn't hide your book, yeah? Here. Come have some water, chill out for a second? Elliot's not used to the, like, you know... Noise and clamour." A beat "Of the city."

C.B.'s about to stalk right back down the hall and go back to his apartment, but...Franky intervention. He pauses halfway down the hall and sighs, muttering to himself, before turning around and coming back. "Sorry." This is first said to Frank, but then to Elliot, gesturing with the Moleskine. "Sorry." Now he's staring down at the floor, studying the scuffed patterns there. "You two looked busy anyway." The tremor in his hands looks a little less pronounced than earlier.

It's clear that Franklyn knows her way around a CB Blow Up; one can even assume that she knows why he is the way he is. If Elliot were any other person, she might press her about it. I mean, it's natural to be curious! But see, here's the thing: it's none of her business. He lost his notebook. That's all she needs to know. Why he had to flip out about it, why he had to near-murder a chair? That's not anything she needs to pry into.

She continues to stand stock still, a doe in an exposed meadow listening for danger. Should she run? Or is it safe now? When Franklyn coaxes him back, when it appears that the author has recovered from whatever fit consumed him, the answer is apparent: ALL CLEAR.

He apologizes; she just smiles and nods over to where she's laid out three other notebooks. "I found these on the shelves under the counter," she says in that soft voice of hers. "Tell me where you'd like them so that they won't be lost." See? Helpful. See? No big deal.

"Thank you." Franklyn says quietly to C.B., post-apology. The earlier blush of frustrated embarrassment has mostly subsided - she's turning now, gesturing between Elliot and C.B., "We were just talking -- Elliot told me she's like, proposed to join up with the collective -- right on -- and... I dunno. What is busy? Bee's are busy, and but they're busy together."

Franky swoops her hair out of her face with a flick of her wrist - then inclines her head to Elliot, speaking to C.B, "See? She's busy when we're not even looking. Damn. You need like, a whole new shelving unit just for notebooks - right?" A pause, then she clears her throat and adds quietly, "...How does the committee make decisions on people, anyway? Other than 'by group', of course..."

A pause, then Franky looks to Elliot, "It's like the reverse of a group interview, I imagine? Know what I mean?"

"Honey, you can just put those back where you found them, okay?" C.B. says that to Elliot, his sleep-deprived blue eyes still just a touch too wide. "You don't have to work right now. You don't -- " He frowns suddenly at Frank. "You were talking. I'm interrupting."

Then he sighs and shrugs big, rolling his eyes up at the ceiling. "They -- we'll look over her application, I'll report my findings, people vote yay or nay. They've never voted nay on anyone, though, except this one guy who turned out to be a convicted sex predator, so." Another big shrug. His hands rest lightly on his hips, still holding the Moleskine. "Don't /worry/ about it, Frank, as you're always saying. It'll be fine. What do you care, anyway? You know her or something?" Now he gives Elliot a suspicious sort of look. What else doesn't he know about her?

'It's like the reverse of a group interview, I imagine? Know what I mean?' Actually, Elliot has no idea what Franklyn means. Group interview? She swings those doe-eyes over to CB and her eyebrows lift up, disappearing under her ragged bangs. "Do I need to come in for the vote? Answer any questions that people have?" One would imagine that this would make her nervous -- maybe she would be in the moment. However, for now, she just digests this information as something she needs (or doesn't need) to do.

Wait. Something suddenly occurs to her: she looks at Franklyn with a blink and appears comically confused. "You don't work here?" She stops short of asking what Frank's role here actually is though because (as is becoming her motto) it's none of her business.

CB 'honeys' her, directing where the notebooks should be placed. A nod. A faintly dimpled smile. Next thing you know, she's crouched down again and is tidying up down there; she clears a spot on the shelf and stacks the notebooks one on top of the other. One, two, three. There ya go. When she stands, she dusts her hands together and looks pleased with a job well-done.

"...That sounds both bureaucratic, and essential." Franklyn admits, her eyes only a touch glazed over in response to the inner council at Cat-22 make their terribly egalitarian decisions. She then side steps, and carefully nudges C.B. in the arm with her fist. "Yeah, but there are good and bad ways to interrupt -- you can make the choice."

Like behavioural choices were that easy. Franky knows better! Pft!

Franklyn sticks by C.B's side, turning to watch Elliot and her doe-eyed, earnest questioning. Oh. Then it becomes about her. "Huh-- oh? Oh. Oh, no I don't -- I run a theatre in town; well, it runs itself these days, but I..." She fades out; hands moving vaguely in the air. Is that mime for 'run things' or 'run amok'?

Then Franky turns and peers at C.B. as El puts those books away - brow furrowed, frowning in the Author's direction. "Hey! I can worry or not worry -- and, and... No." Uncertain. "Elliot and I just met." Why does she sound uncertain? Franky smiles vaguely and shrugs; voice teasing. "I'm also allowed to care. You don't have a monopoly!"

"No, you don't need to come in for the vote, Elliot. If we have follow-up questions, I'll let you know." C.B. rubs his eyes and just...leaves his hand there for a moment. "She doesn't work here," he begins to answer when Elliot asks. "She --" But Franky is answering that, all on her own. He seems to be ignoring the bit about making the choice. He already knows he made a bad choice. So maybe it's good that he didn't just storm out and leave Elliot a really bad impression of her future coworker.

'Course, she might still have a bad impression of him now...

Then he finally moves his hand away from his face, moving it back to his skinny hip. He snorts at the line about the monopoly, eyes moving past her to the bottles at the bar, then back to Elliot, then back to Frank. "Anything else?"

With the notebooks stacked and tucked away, the next thing Elliot does is place her hands on the seat of the offending stool and press her weight forward. Is there a wobble? Does it need fixing? Because she's handy. She can repair it. Granted, she's not an expert or anything but she's pretty good taking broken things and making them less so. It's a safe bet that it's a skill she's picked up out of necessity -- when you are poor, you've got to make things last.

"You run a theater?" she responds with a smile as she teeters back and forth slightly. The tone of her voice indicates that she's slipped back into a state of awe and one can practically see the sparkles in her gaze when she looks at Franklyn. "I'd like to see a play someda-.." Quick correction. "..-time." A quick glance at Frank, at CB, to see if they caught that slip. Of course she's seen a play. Everyone has seen a play. Right?

The stool seems okay so she straightens again and rubs the heels of her palms down along her hips. If the author is worried about her having a bad impression of him, nothing in her demeanor seems to indicate that she thinks poorly of him. Remember, he /fed/ her. That will forgive a lot. "I'm going to pour myself a glass of water. Would either of you like some?" Really, she just wants to get CB hydrated but this seems to be a more delicate way of getting some H2O into him than fussing over him directly.

"Anything else, what?" Franky chimes at C.B. - her elbow wheedling its way in his direction, so she can literally rib him, just a bit. "Look, I know you've go the tour on your plate - but can we talk through your Insomnia Rex treatment? Unless it no longer exists, and the title has changed, and nothing is real-- or, you just want to smoke out back and throw rocks at a trashcan with me. Trasketball." Doesn't work. Franky pulls a face. Not all the jokes can land.

Such strife, it brings her. But the exaggerated frown is wiped away, as Franky looks up at Elliot "I do - Green Door, can't miss it. We've only got, eh, some..." Oh she looks embarrassed. "Holiday productions on now, up until the New Year." Pantomime and musical theatre for kids -- THE HORROR. But? Franklyn puts her best, most nonchalant foot forward, "After the new year? Entirely new programme. Swing by, I'll show you the sets."

A pause, then she looks back at C.B., "Well, new programme, if we get pre-production lined up in time..." Water? No thanks! Only work. She might as well be tugging on C.B's sleeve, only that wouldn't be very professional now, would it.

C.B. might've caught Elliot's slip, but he doesn't look too disturbed by it. Why is that? "I'm good, Elliot. I have to -- " His eyes flit to Franky when she mentions Insomnia Rex; he sighs and shrugs. "We've talked about it before. If you still want it, and you want it to be a joint effort or something, then we need to sit down and /do/ that." Scowl.

Squint. Franky being extra-charitable to Elliot and all. "She probably won't like it," he snaps. Then he sighs again and rubs his temple. "Fine. Let's go have a smoke and chat about it. Elliot, it's been real, or whatever people say. We'll be in touch." He's already heading out towards the back again.

Elliot isn't /young/-young -- she told CB earlier that she's 30 and Franklyn might have glimpsed her birthdate off her application before it wound up in the author's pocket. But the way she looks at the pair of them? It's like she's a kid admiring a couple of adults. They just sound so .. fuck. Grown up in the most glamorous way possible. Talking about theater and book tours, making a date to discuss a 'treatment' while smoking?

Elliot actually dreamy-sighs.

They exist in an entirely different universe, a universe that she has no hope of ever traveling to.

She smiles at the pair of them as they take their leave, lifting her hand and waving. There's a whole mix of emotions in her expression: admiration, sadness, confusion, envy, awe, worry. "It's been real," she echoes and strains her neck to watch them go. And when they have left? She crouches down and starts to reorganize the counter-shelves. Because that's the universe she lives in.