She’s talking to that one. When is she ever going to figure out that they’re only ever talking to her to use her up? He’s connected the dots for her; it comes with the detective brain; it’s not her fault, but if any one of them was any good for her, she would have never found herself at her lowest low. She would have never fallen far below the perch she should always be placed at. He’s never understood it. It’s obvious to him. She deserves so much more, so much more than a singer can give her, or a director, especially ones who seem too busy.
He’s done his research. He knows who they talk to, who they spend their time with, who they look at the way Dante looks at her. It’s never Tally Kennedy. He knows things about her that they could never know, things they’d never in a million years even notice about her that he’s able to trace over with his eyes closed. Don’t the pages in his notepad bleed from his feelings enough? The tip of his pencil curving to become a weak mirror of her hair in a bun? He’ll never do her justice. No one ever could. He can only hope one of the cameras around this place is clear enough to take, official police matter, nothing less.
All he can do is watch for now. Be content with being closer this time than most. To be in the light of the bar, even if it’s in the corner, busying himself during his limbo, curating her image as best he can, even when she soon becomes alone, even when he’s failed to notice her walking in his direction.
she laughs into the remnants of a latte, cold foam sticking to the rim of a chipped white cup, mismatched saucer dried from any spills. there’s only so much time in a lunch break, even if it’s buffered by comments about the fact that she has one at all. she’s pretty sure she doesn’t actually, that strolling back into the PBS offices a little later than stated every now and again wouldn’t result in much. but it’s the sort of laziness that slips, and she didn’t take the job to slip. so she acknowledges the squareness of her decision, the robot blazer she’s pulled over to disguise from a slightly cooler shirt. she nods— points at the crumbs that still dust the corner of leo’s mouth and picks up her bag.
“maybe i’ll come tonight.” she shrugs, “maybe.” which is code for yes of course, i’m offended you even had to ask again. but they don’t say what they mean, and now she’s pretty sure they never will. “you’ll have to see.” she checks her watch and gives a salute goodbye before there’s time for another round of witty comebacks. they’ve been known to go on for hours.
the office isn’t far from the coffee shop, the small cafe that she’s staked a claim on as her escape when the starched collars start the itch, a safe middle ground between past and present. it’s still long enough to pull out her head phones, pick a song or two to hum along with. the clunky over the ear headphones have a tendency to drag a fair amount of junk along with them, dropping the occasional receipt or pen on the ground while she secures the headphones over her ears.
this time a pair of jangling studio keys hits the ground, the kind of sound that’s nearly impossible to miss unless someone can’t hear over the music that they’re currently selecting. she stands there, shuffling through the downloads of demos and eps that always seem to need a first listen, keys glinting at her feet. just waiting for to be noticed.
