Daken (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
trollverine) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
capeandcowllogs2012-07-22 06:59 pm
trollverine) wrote in capeandcowllogs2012-07-22 06:59 pm
Entry tags:
(no subject)
WHO: Daken and Selina.
WHERE: An art gallery.
WHEN: Monday night?
WARNINGS: I don't know shit about art galleries
SUMMARY: How not to act upon discovering that someone doesn't remember you.
FORMAT: quick?
[An art show is a good place for an aesthete to pass a little time, both for the show itself and the ever self-conscious Manhattanites. Daken shows up to the gallery in Ferragamo, the sleeves of his jacket pushed up over his tattoo. Two people ask him if he's an artist himself, as a means of icebreaking. One of them looks like an Ivy League boy, with intelligent green eyes and a little too much cologne for Daken's nose.
But under the miasma of that cologne and Chanel No. 5 and paint and wine, between the wandering crowd, there's something familiar, and even as he talks about the art and the city, evading questions he doesn't want to answer, he realizes that he's staring at someone else. She's graceful and athletic, distinctive without exoticism. Her back is to him. He watches her for a second before excusing himself from his conversation.
The closer he gets, the surer he is that it's her. She came back to the City without bothering to tell him. But how typically Selina: she had mastered casual disinterest, like a cat flicks its tail and looks away, knowing it's being watched.
He comes up behind her.]
Weren't you going to say hello?
WHERE: An art gallery.
WHEN: Monday night?
WARNINGS: I don't know shit about art galleries
SUMMARY: How not to act upon discovering that someone doesn't remember you.
FORMAT: quick?
[An art show is a good place for an aesthete to pass a little time, both for the show itself and the ever self-conscious Manhattanites. Daken shows up to the gallery in Ferragamo, the sleeves of his jacket pushed up over his tattoo. Two people ask him if he's an artist himself, as a means of icebreaking. One of them looks like an Ivy League boy, with intelligent green eyes and a little too much cologne for Daken's nose.
But under the miasma of that cologne and Chanel No. 5 and paint and wine, between the wandering crowd, there's something familiar, and even as he talks about the art and the city, evading questions he doesn't want to answer, he realizes that he's staring at someone else. She's graceful and athletic, distinctive without exoticism. Her back is to him. He watches her for a second before excusing himself from his conversation.
The closer he gets, the surer he is that it's her. She came back to the City without bothering to tell him. But how typically Selina: she had mastered casual disinterest, like a cat flicks its tail and looks away, knowing it's being watched.
He comes up behind her.]
Weren't you going to say hello?
no subject
And if you don't... [ It's a bit difficult to pick out something appropriate when she doesn't know anything about him. ] Well, I'll keep that a secret.
no subject
[It's not as if he has a reputation for strict promise-keeping to ruin if her secret turns out to be too much.]
Japanese or French?
no subject
[ So far, this seems like a win-win situation, but then she's been wrong before (once or twice). ]
But I wouldn't go making any reservations.