Summary:A chance encounter, a brief meeting. Hair was touched, coffee was had. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Saoirse is holding onto the counter where the barrista's expect you to order. "I'll have a marshmallow mocha with extra marshmallow and whipped cream please!" The black-coffee serving crowd eyes the curvy-hipped woman with the rather moderate Irish accent. "We'll see what we can do, go find a seat." The millenial says to her which equates to 'your getting black coffe, maybe cream at the table'. The blonde smiles brightly and hops up, staying there a moment about 6 inches above the ground before a slow fluttery landing on her feet. "Oh, thank you, thank you!" She's wearing a denim jacket as it's a bit chilly outside yet and begins scanning the room audibly commenting to herself "So where to sit..where to sit…"
Monet has already been served — by a now-frazzled employee who would like nothing better than to go on break, if only she hadn't *just* arrived at work. The harried waitress gives Saoirse a look of beleaguered resilience as she blows her bangs off her forehead and sweeps past the double-doors to the back, where the kitchen is. Monet isn't the easiest customer to deal with, but she pays well when satisfied, though her manner often means the person fulfilling her needs has to work for it.
Seated at a long table — lined with multiple cushioned, high-backed chairs with rungs for resting one's feet upon whilst sitting — that faces the outward-looking windows of the storefront, Monet bounces a well-heeled foot as she awaits her order's arrival — French vanilla cappuccino that's likely more sugar-milk than coffee and a chocolate au pain, with a side of crisply cold milk. She looks slightly out of place, here, dressed incredibly expensively in luxuriant, chic clothing perfect for the weather, but she's young, and lovely, and seems to appreciate the soft music that's playing in the background.
Saoirse begins stumbling through the room, she definately doesn't seem that stable on her feet. Coming to a next to Monet she can't help but wonder what crip milk is? Is it crispy milk? Frozen milk? Frozen milk so that's why it's crispy? Hmm. The fine clothing she wears is lost on the blonde. "Hi!" she offers abruptly yet brightly.
Bending over at the eaist so she's more on the level of the other woman "I'm Saoirse! Sometimes people have trouble pronouncing my name, so it's pronounced Sear-shae. I like your hair, it looks so springy, and volumnolous. And Springy. My hair doesn't get springy like that. But if I heat it, or someone else heats it, it gets kinda curly."
At the chipper greeting from the Irish blonde, Monet turns her attention to the young woman with an expression of mild interest. She waits for Saoirse to finish speaking before she responds, a mixed expression of something between amusement and annoyance on her face. When she does speak, her voice is buttery and feminine, and accented thickly with her native French. "Saoirse," she repeats, though in her own way, with that funky fricative r-sound that French-speakers are known for. "Pleasure," she says briefly, by way of greeting. "Merci. My 'air is very finicky, as zey say, but be'aves well if treated properly." Of course, telling Saoirse how to treat her hair would be a difficult thing for Monet to do, since she's only ever dealt with her hair type. After a moment's pause, Monet inhales a sharp, small breath before asking, "Do I…know you?"
Saoirse reaches out to touch the hair trying to push at one of the 'springs' as she thinks of them with her finger looking rather full of wonder. "No, we don't know one another. Though it is possible you might know me, but I think you would have known as you seem rather astute, and I'm told that I tend to stick out. Though if I did know you and I forgot I'm sorry, I had a bit of an injury and forgot a lot of things. Hopefully one of them is not you?"
Monet's richly hazel gaze widens a bit as Saoirse just…touches her hair like that, without regard to personal space or the fact that they don't seem to know one another. She lifts her brows as she leaaaans back a bit, "No, I do not believe we 'ave met. I think I would remember you," she agrees. She smiles lightly, in that way one does when trying to remain polite but also keeping one's distance. "You 'ave my sympathies, your injury and memory loss. But, ah, 'ere is my order. Per'aps I should get it to-go," she says, weighting her words pointedly to the frazzled waitress who, taking the hint from Monet's piercing gaze, turns on her heel and marches back to the kitchens to box and cup the order up for transport.
Saoirse blinks as the hair gets just out of her reach. "Well..I died, but I got better. Kind of. It's hard to define because it's so undefinable but yet..here I am." She leans back and floats to about a foot above the ground. "Oh! I made you angry didn't I? My sister tells me I shouldn't just touch people I don't know. It's good advice. But I'm obviously not following it am I?"
Saoirse blinks as the hair gets just out of her reach. "Well..I died, but I got better. Kind of. It's hard to define because it's so undefinable but yet..here I am." She leans back and floats to about a foot above the ground. "Oh! I made you angry didn't I? My sister tells me I shouldn't just touch people I don't know. It's good advice. But I'm obviously not following it am I?"
Monet smiles, again, this time the kind of smile one uses when trying to socialize with people who might not be 'all there.' "Oui, it is better to respect people's personal space. But, no 'arm done. Since you introduced yourself, I should let you know I am Monet St. Croix," she says, rising to her feet. She's quite tall, when standing, especially with her heels. "If you'll excuse me, Saoirse. It was nice to meet you. 'Ave a nice day. I wish you z' best of luck with your memory, regaining it. Congratulations on being better," she says, patting Saoirse on the shoulder as she makes her way toward the front of the store with a backwards wave. She accepts her to-go order and tips nicely, walking out into the biting cold that awaits everyone, just outside.
Saoirse tilts her head to the right side as she floats there "Hmm. So some people can touch others uninvited but others can? That's very confusing. Hmm. I wonder if that's what hypocritical means? I haven't gotten to use that word yet. It's been sitting on my word of the day calendar, so unused."