Logs:Heartless
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| RL Date: 8 September, 2015 |
| Who: Farideh, Everett |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: Farideh and Everett have a disagreement over a tab. |
| Where: Snowasis, High Reaches Weyr |
| When: Day 6, Month 10, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Drex/Mentions |
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| No sign of rain all afternoon--the sort of autumn day people think of when they wish each other clear skies. But the sun's setting earlier and earlier, and with the sun goes the warmth, and so what had been a slow afternoon has gotten significantly busier as the evening wears on. Thankfully, the Snowasis is prepared, and Everett isn't the only one working tonight. That allows for at least a minimal amount of the standard-issue lighthearted banter with customers as they place their orders, a little bit of sweet talking to a pretty girl now and then. There's actually a blonde lingering even after he's moved on to other orders. Not a girl, though. Probably old enough to be his mother. Hasn't stopped him from smiling at her quite a lot. Another patron cozies up to the bar nearby that blonde lady, and this one is a little younger, wearing a wearied expression as she waits for one of the bartenders to notice her. It's not as if Farideh stands out, even with the knot that denotes her station in the Weyr and the full-skirted, chocolate-hued dress she wears; she's much too short for that. Patiently, she waits, trying her best not to look anyone in the eye, unless they are the ones traditionally known for bearing wine and other spirits. The thing about chocolate is that it's brown. And the thing about brown is that as colors go, it doesn't stand out. For some more than others. "See," Everett is saying to his newfound friend, "we don't get enough people with any kind of taste around here, that's the trouble with this place. You have taste." Since he's pouring her another out of one of those top-shelf bottles, the reason for his interest in this particular customer might become somewhat evident. But not so interested as to destroy his finely-honed sense of customer satisfaction completely. "Can I help you?" Generic offer to generic customer. Then a blink. "Sorry--weyrwoman. Ah." It takes him a beat to get his bearings again. "The woman of the hour, as it were. Or of the last couple sevens. What can I get you?" By closeness alone, it's hard not to eavesdrop on the conversation Everett is having with his newfound lady friend, but Farideh doesn't seem to take offense so much as her lips quirk in mild amusement. "Evrat?" She'll get it correct one day! Sooner, rather than later? "I'm sure a lot of people have a lot to say--" Her smile widens, but it neither warms nor cools. "I'd like white wine. I don't even care from where or the vintner, just-- white wine," earnestly. "Has it been busy overmuch?" She might already know, given she has two eyes to see how the crowd ebbs and flows, but her gaze, on Everett, is intent, questioning. "Why, that almost sounds like you trust me! Since I'm quite sure you'd care if it was the cheap stuff. Not that we keep nearly as much cheap wine as cheap ale and cheap liquor. Especially the liquor." Evrat--sorry, Everett's new friend does not seem nearly as thrilled to share the spotlight, and it might be that the friend she suddenly feels the need to go talk to would not have rated that under other circumstances. Convenient, though, for the bartender. Or one would think. His face falls slightly. "Ah, well," without explanation. He's going for a bottle of a status befitting its drinker, a stemmed glass, pouring. "I think we have been. More strangers than I'm used to. More than a few drop-ins from the other Weyrs, since the flight, pretending they're just stopping by, really wanting to feel like they're the first in the loop. You?" "Who better to trust than the bartender? He does keep the most secrets in the Weyr," Farideh returns, elbow set on the bartop and fingers curling around her chin; she's not oblivious enough not to notice where Everett's eyes linger. "Should I go speak with her on your behalf? I could put in a good word-- throw in a couple lies-- score you some points?" She's clearly enjoying the farce, or the farce of a farce, and watches, with mesmerized expression, when he pours wine. "More when the candidates start to come in-- not that they're encouraged to do any great amount of drinking, but-- faces from all over." Then, her eyes flick up, to Everett's face. "There's always something to do, especially these days." Enough room left in the glass for the wine to have some breathing room, and Everett passes it over to her. "No, no, no need to go to the trouble. I was hoping for a pretty hefty tip--I've seen her do it for some of the other guys. Her ex comes in here with a girl my age, most nights." There's a smile, there, an acknowledgement: Look, he does know things! "Perks of the job, I guess. Learn about everyone's infidelities. It can be a burden, though. Sometimes wish I didn't know. Then sometimes I think, well, life is complicated. They'll probably be back together again in another month." He puts the bottle back up, careful with it, almost reverent. "And, here I thought, you were a romantic." Farideh's laughing at him when she lifts the glass to her lips and takes a testing sip. "It's always easier when you don't know," she confirms, with a tip of her head. "Not just secrets, but-- everything. So, tell me, some of your best kept secrets, and perhaps you can still leave your shift with a hefty tip?" There's a quirk of eyebrows. "I am a romantic," Everett informs her, with an entirely straight face. "So much so that I'm still looking for the girl who's really worth it." Earnest. Like he could be serious. Is he serious? Not easy to tell. "If I told my best secrets, they wouldn't be secrets, and how much would that be worth? A little more to line my pockets? No, not the best. I can tell you my second-best secrets, though." Not that he's actually forthcoming about it; he's got to take a couple dirty glasses back, and then fill an order for a cocktail that takes him a few moments to put together. A sigh escapes Farideh as she finally slips onto the stool at her side, signifying the intent to stay for a bit longer. "Don't all men think they're romantics? Most, only, to woo the girl, but that-- I'm convinced only harpers can be, and for the ballad." She's shrewd enough; she waits, until those glasses are cleaned and his other patrons seen to before noting, "Second best secrets, then, but for a second best tip." Here, coming back, Everett leans on the bar to really look at her. "Suppose we do. Have to, don't we? Women are a heartless lot. Someone has to carry the fire. Be a little impractical. Create the hope that you'll be better than you are." While he's waxing poetic, though, one of his coworkers shouts his name, gestures something incomprehensible, which he waves off. Work, schmerk. "I mean categorically, of course. My third-best secret," this is downgrading by the moment, here, "is that your tab's run to the point where I'm supposed to be demanding you pay it off before serving you. Which is odd, because I don't see you here nearly as often as I'd like." The glass of wine is never far from her lips throughout Everett's whole spiel on romance, and her eyebrows keep lifting higher and higher up to the end. "Heartless? Women carry and create the future. You won't often see a bronzerider stopping his career, his anything to see his offspring properly raised. Heartless, hm," Farideh replies, all in good humor, despite the subject; a subject close to home in these recent sevens. She's still smiling when he gives her the bad news. "Excuse me? What tab? I've never left here without paying," as her mouth slacks into a frown. "Children are another matter entirely." She's frowning, but at first Everett doesn't show any sign of having really noticed the change in tone. "It's a different thing to be romantic. It's in the book." Romance? No, her tab. He quotes an amount that is, well, consistent with someone who spent a whole night buying drinks for themselves and at least a few for others along the way. Possibly with a smidge of padding on top. "There are policies, obviously, about extending credit. Not really intended to apply to someone in your situation. I'm sure we could make some kind of arrangement for payment." He seems to be paying more attention to her face, just there, more concentration than it warrants. Romance, children-- all easily forgotten in the face of business. "Can I see the book? Do you have accounts of what and when? Who? You've seen my weyr, and my wine. I don't need to drink that much, here," Farideh says, levelly, while she stares unhappily at Everett. "Is it at all possible some drunken ass put his whole order, and his friends', on a tab for me? I'd really like to know whom, so I can resent them with the bill." Without preamble, she pulls out a pretty pouch, and stacks the full amount on the counter. "It's not an issue of payment. It's an issue of dishonesty." Easily forgotten by the heartless, maybe. Everett, Everett peers at her for a moment longer, then turns away, waving off the marks on the bar, even acquiring the bottle again to freshen up her glass, unbidden. "My second best secret," he says, as he sets it aside again, "is that men drink like women cry, only more honestly. Even so, it shouldn't have happened, and that's the bartender's responsibility, not yours. Still. Did wonder. Tonight on the house, too, just for the trouble, hmm?" But he's already moving on to fill a pitcher for that table of Iceberg riders who're down to the dregs and bound to be after another, like this has been nothing out of the ordinary. The marks aren't removed, and if anything, Farideh looks more annoyed by Everett's unwillingness to take them to cover her tab. "I want to know who's using my name to start tabs, regardless of who's at fault," the goldrider says steadily, and then crosses her arms over her chest. She'll even watch him serve those Iceberg riders broodily, giving them a suspicious glance like it could be them who did the deed. Her look of annoyance is matched by a look of blank politeness. Everett's face is certainly capable of being more expressive. Just... not in this particular moment. He hands the pitcher across with both hands to the bluerider who comes up to retrieve it, then turns back to the goldrider like an afterthought. "I had really thought you were a better class of girl than that, all around," he settles on, taking advantage of that moment when nobody's close enough for his voice to carry over the general din. Like it's not an insult, just a confidential reflection on how all this mess got started. "It won't happen again. If you don't know, then he's better off for it, isn't he?" It's another matter altogether now, after that, and it's easy to tell when the goldrider's annoyance slips into chill. "I'm sorry. I don't think you understand. These arks pay the tab," Farideh, pointing to the marks still stacked on the counter, enunciates, slowly. "You can think whatever you like. Excuse me." Wineglass is plucked up as she slides back off her stool and stands, taking a moment to rearrange her skirts and sweep the re-purposed weyr with a calculating glance; after which, she slips into the crowd and simply-- disappears. |
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