Dead for Eternity [Sen - Inki]

Midday. It was time to quickly eat lunch - if undisturbed (though Inkidortes wouldn't mind a disturbance - she rather enjoyed chatter with those who approached her) - and then workout at the gym. Then it was back to lovely office work! It was a daily ritual, at least when her work didn't get in the way.

Today she would dine at one of her old haunts. The small cafe tables were certainly no stranger to her, not over the past however-many years. She made her way in and over to a table behind a fashionably dressed man. She took her time to eye him; had she ever seen him before? Perhaps he was a new apprentice that Rhys had talked to. Inkidortes and his sketch book discreetly. Were those...fashion outfits? Intriguing.

Quietly she pulled out a chair and sat, folding her warm, brown hands in her lap as she patiently waited for a waiter to approach her.

The whistle tipped her off that this lunch break would be...interesting, to say the least. Inkidortes ignored it, and waited for the waiter.

"Sweet biscuits and gravy babe, how long have you been looking that fine? Where's your teeming throng of salivating followers?" That certainly got her attention. She slowly turned her head, granting him a condensing glare, before retorting drying: "Perhaps it was my stellar personality that scared them away."

Inkidortes made an effort to turned the corners of her mouth down so to appear displeased. In truth, she found this situation and the stranger across from rather amusing. Somewhat irritating, but mostly amusing. Not many had the gall to make any such remarks to her. This young'un certainly did, though. Hopefully he erred on being two brave, and not too disrespectful.

As if he had no more presence than a bug, she looked away leisurely and resumed waiting to be waited on.

Her eyebrows nearly reached her hairline as he got out of his seat. Was he coming over to sit at her table? Could he please not? It didn't seem like he had a hand on reading her thoughts, nor her expressions, as the stranger seated himself in front of her. Inkie grimaced and sat up, withdrawing her legs that had been stretched out so comfortably before.

The man's comment on being "the braver sort" had her narrowing her eyes at him, contemplating the absurd idea that he could mind read, or that she had voiced her inner thoughts unknowingly. Inkie discarded both notions into her mental trash can; neither thoughts were rational, nor natural. His comments were bordering the line between playful and perverted, progressively getting worse, almost as if he wanted to provoke her in some way, she speculated. Best of luck to him, then.

"Chasing you? For foreplay? My child, I do not think that is the reason why women are chasing you." Inkidortes took a mock second to 'consider the possibilities' as to why he would every be chased. She wrinkled forehead, tapped her fingers on the table, and came to her inclusion: "Rather, I think they may be wanting to shiv you for paying so much attention to their breasts, rather than their faces."

The sketch book she had noticed earlier was now open and doodled in. Was he drawing her? Would he fall into the artist's trap and exaggerate her more prominent features? Her eyes lingered on the movement of his hands; she was curious. Inkidortes certainly did not advocate her love for photograph or drawn art, but it was still great. Capturing a moment in time with the click of a button or a line on a page was magical. Of course she would critique the art, (she was Cacira Korbis Inkidrotes, after all) but she would appreciate it for all of her’s worth. For example, take the various pieces of paperwork hanging on her wall with curious Egyptian hieroglyphs from Kemta, or splashes of rainbow from Maxwell. Maybe if he gave it to her she would hang- no, no she wouldn't, because hopefully he wouldn't give it to her because she'd have to return to her room before going to the gym.

The man’s reply garnered her attention once again, so she was pulled back to look him in the eyes. “How lovely to know,” Inkidortes replied in the same dead tone, though her eyes did sparkle with a granule of amusement. “Legs are much more useful to have than breasts, after all.”

The smirk that frequented his face was somewhat unnerving to her. In a certain way it reminded her of a certain someone’s smirk, but it was wrong around the corners, the color, the way it formed on his face. The waiter interrupted her assessment of the man’s grin with a “Hello, what would you like to drink?” Inkidortes’ eyes snapped to his face, recognizing the short, red-cheeked man with clarity. He was a good server, a good man.

“A water and an avocado pita sandwich, please.” the man nodded enthusiastically, quickly writing down her order before he turned a questioning look on the man opposite of Inkidortes.

“And you, sir?” the waiter questioned.

Inkidortes was not sure of she should be appreiatative that he treated a lady in a wheelchair the same as those who were jot, or horrified that he would go so far to sexualize such a person.

After taking the other man's order, he looked to Inkidortes for confirmation. She nodded and held up two of her fingers; sign language for two checks. The man smiled briefly and strode quickly away, expecting nothing less of his apprentice leader.

With the departure of the waiter, the stranger seemed to get return to himself and the confirmation. At this point, Inkidortes knew it was highly improbable he would leave her alone. She might as well humor him with the small talk he seemed to crave.

Sitting back in her chair, she replying on a sigh: "I was born in southern Iberia, though I lived in Rome for the majority of my life." She paused to tuck away a stray piece of hair, "And you?" Already memories of free grass fields which suddenly morphed into oppressive, manmade walls were flooding back. And suddenly she felt hot. It was not necessarily a bad thing; these memories were somewhat benign, and hadn't been brought to light in quite sometime. In any case, conversation ought the be polite, as long as he did not dig too deep.

"Hablas español?"

Inkidortes leaned forward in interest. Did he speak Spanish? Languages were nice. Bilingual people were better, if they could hold a conversation. They couldn't hold a flame to her, though. She was the living Rosetta Stone. Or maybe she was the dead, but walking and talking Rosetta Stone. The line between the two was blurred beyond recognition at this point.

"Yellow." She paused and tapped her fingers on her table. "Like sunrises." Which meant it wasn't just yellow, but a million colors in one. "Although all colors are just colors, so perhaps I jumped the gun. There is no color I truly like or dislike."

"¿Trabajar? Uno que ha tomado sobre si mismo."* Inkidortes spoke in the subtle tones of the Andalusian dialect, softer and more fluid than many of the other dialects she knew of.

"Ancient Rome, sunrises and a will of steel." His words...were a relatively accurate description. It didn't give her pause, though, and she watched him with peaceful hazel eyes.

"I will wait." The waiter was approaching waiter, hands full of the duo's sandwiches and their drinks. Inkidortes appreciated the man's timeliness and adherence to how she liked to eat out: all at once. That mean the drink and food arrived at the same time. Perhaps she should explain to the fellow across from her about the delay of the drinks...but no, that wasn't quite worth her time.

"Thank you," she nodded to the ruddy waiter as he slid her food to her, and likewise to her "dining partner" (she should really ask his name...his face she remembered from a file...one Rhys had showed her but...the man's name escaped her, ah well). "Box please. And everything on my tab please." The waiter was then off, with a smile, and Inkidortes unwrapped her straw and reached for a drink of water.