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✧ basics;

Full Name: Moses Michael Persaud

Nickname/Preferred Name: Mo, Mose, M&M

Age: thirty four

Birthday: May 4, 1990

Zodiac: Taurus sun, Virgo moon, Taurus rising

Gender & Pronouns: cis-male, he/him

Sexual Orientation: heterosexual probably

Relationship Status: single

Residence: Sycamore Row; The Sycamore Arms #209

Occupation: Sport Science Coordinator, Chicago Cubs; Little League coach

#( about. )#wp.intro

jamesselroy

James shrugged some. "It's a game. Sports were never really my thing." He had stupidly tried out for the football team in middle school, all in the hopes to impress a girl. But had promptly broke his wrist during tryouts, which had put a damper on what he had really loved, playing the drums. And thus ended his try to get into sports at all. Not that he really minded all that much if he was being honest.

"It really is, sort of wondering why I made my way down here-" He nodded towards his glass. "Especially just for a Diet Coke." A snort made its way out of him, though he supposed it was better than staying holed up in his apartment. That he needed to make an effort to get out and about. Do something. Even if it was paying for what he was sure was an overly priced soda. But there wasn't much else to do so for now he was settle for this.

mosespersaud

Moses chuckled. Sports were never really my thing -- the opposite of any kind of aesthetic Moses had ever embraced for himself. While his friendship with Eliana was ample evidence he could embrace someone whole-heartedly when they weren't a sports person, it wasn't a common refrain among people he knew well.

Maybe that made this guy the right person in the bar to talk to. The trouble was that Moses wasn't entirely sure who or what he was if you subtracted baseball from the equation.

"I can only tell you why I'm here," Moses said. "And that's to get out of the house." Sure, he had a beer, but it was a small one. And it was a fairly unremarkable red ale. It was probably only a step above a Diet Coke if someone were making a soda versus beer scale. "My roommate said I don't go out, so this is me proving her wrong." He glanced around, doubtful he was going to find anything other than just that to cling to for the night. Might as well make more conversation here than try to go elsewhere in the room. "If you're not into sports, what are you into?"

#( conversations. )#( m; james )#( c; james )#alcohol tw

ofelation

maren beamed happily as moses seemed open and willing to hear her out. "right ?" maren replied , excitedly bouncing up and down in her chair. "our options are chocolate chip , raspberry lemon or plain vanilla. all with our buttercream frosting. i think the flavours are simple enough to appeal to a lot of kids. maren didn't tell him that she'd spent hours researching what kids liked to eat and countless youtube videos had now tainted her feed forever. still , it was worth it to do what she loved. "a flapjack is a baked bar , cookied in a flat and cut into squares or rectangles ," she quoted dutifully , pulling out an example photo to show moses. "we can even sneak in some carrots to make sure they're not just consuming a lot of sugar."

mosespersaud

"Those all sound great," he agreed. "Do you think it would be better to do theme days, or to just do a mix every week?"

She was immediately game to answer his question. He tried to picture what she described, but he wasn't sure he'd ever had one before. He was grateful for the picture she showed. "I'm sure their parents would appreciate that," he said. "And I don't know how many of them are getting enough vegetables, so that's a really good idea."

He folded his arms and bit his lip and he tried to think of other things they could sprinkle into the season, too. "What about cookies? Would it be too weird to do cookies for birthdays and cupcakes after games? Or should we go bigger? I think there are four team birthdays during the season, so not a lot."

#( conversations. )#( m; maren )#( c; maren )

ofresoluxe

Naomi’s steps slowed when she heard her name, head turning in the direction of the sound. “Mo?” she called back, spotting him just a few spots away. She didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but she took him in for a moment. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with dark eyes and even darker lashes. He was undeniably handsome, though the tiredness in his expression suggested a long day. Something she sympathized with. She turned in his direction and met him halfway. She lifted his bag of food and smiled a bit playfully. “Here we are. All in one piece and if you’re quick, I think it’s even still warm.”

mosespersaud

Even as Moses fit the picture of her in alongside his expectations, he held up the tied together bag containing her food. "I can't say the bag is in one piece, but the food is probably still warm. I did my best," he agreed.

She was very pretty, and it very nearly stopped him from making his next offer, even as they exchanged bags of misdelivered food.

"Not to make this weird, but we can sit in my car if you're interested in eating while it's warm," he said, trying to keep his acknowledgement of how awkward this could get off his face. "I'm parked here, just..." he used his finger to point toward the far corner of the lot, where his hatchback sat. "There's no parking where I was at before this and there's not a chance I make it home before I eat."

#( threads. )#( th; naomi )#( m; naomi )

alecflynn

Alec grinned easily, sliding over the drink before returning to his own. Adrenaline still coursed through him, his stage high intent on circulating through his bloodstream rather than leave him altogether. It made him a little antsy, but in a good way. Like all he needed to do was find a worthy cause with which to transfer it to keep the feeling going.

The stranger's easy acceptance felt like a nice start and despite the way his fingers drummed a steady beat against the bar top or his knee bounced on his seat, his gave the man his full attention. "I actually don't know," he admitted. "My bar is pretty low, though, and I think this tastes fucking delicious. Do with that what you will." As if to prove his point, he took another hearty swallow, followed by the ahhhh of a drink that left the drinker feeling refreshed. "Did you have the G&T here or stop by another one of these..." he wiggled his fingers to encapsulate the festival at large, "little pop up places?"

mosespersaud

Moses gave up trying to suss anything out and, bolstered by the other's ahhhh, he took a long pull. It wasn't the best drink he'd ever had, but it wasn't terrible. He didn't smack his lips or make a sound though, the gesture just a little more outgoing than he was normally.

"Not bad," he agreed. "We're making the rounds. My roommate entered me into the beard contest over at Whiskerinos and, well, people rubbing my face is going to take a decent liquoring up before I'll tolerate it." He shrugged. "I think they're all pretty similar though. What about you?"

#( conversations. )#( m; alec )#( c; alec )#( event: snow frolic )

pastghcsts

ELIANA: I cannot imagine ELIANA: I mean that literally. Mostly because IDK what a step above "writing in the steam" is? What do you MEAN? ELIANA: Would you have hired a skywriter every morning

mosespersaud

MO: I would've written something different in the steam if I had the confidence of a bearded champion. MO: No, that's probably really expensive. Maybe if I had Big League Money to fund my Make Eliana Feel Good responsibilities. But alas, I'm just an office worker.

#( texts. )#( m; ellie )#( c; ellie )

pcstlives

"A glitter insurrection," she suggested. "It would take a week and a half to fully get it out of our hair." Honestly, as much as she loved those little bastards, she couldn't put it past them

"Likewise. Oh yeah." There weren't that many volunteers today, and when Nettie took a moment to place Moses' face, she easily came up with the chain-link fence out back and fresh orange slices. "You're, um, baseball, right? Lifelong passion?"

mosespersaud

"That sounds hard to recover from," Mo objected. But he was laughing as he did, as he imagined it. He remembered cheerleader friends telling him about glitter. It was in "pep boxes" they prepared for the high school team and, really, that meant it was everywhere. She followed it up by confirming their hair wouldn't be the same for a while. "I have a lot of hair. What it lacks in length it makes up for in thickness. I might never get it out, and I'm just not sure I'm a sparkly guy."

He nodded, aware the reason he was potentially recognizable was a lack of other options. He honestly didn't mind. His fifteen minutes of something resembling fame had been years ago. "Yes. Baseball is a lot of things, but it's a fairweather sport for sure. Especially for littler kids."

#( conversations. )#( m; nettie )#( c; nettie )

himymsource

HOW I MET YOUR MOTHER —1x05, Okay Awesome

mosespersaud

@pcstlives | mo & ellie

#( muse. )

pastghcsts

[ OUTGOING SMS 📲 MO ⚾️ ]

ELIANA: [ Attachment: 1 Image ] ELIANA: Ok shut up this is cute ELIANA: Top tier Whiskerinos runner-up behavior ELIANA: Though I do hope you know you've now set a very dangerous precedent ❤️ @mosespersaud

mosespersaud

MO: Just imagine what I would've done if I was a Whiskerinos Winner. MO: Think I know what I'm doing. But thanks for the warning.

#( texts. )#( m; ellie )#( t; ellie )#( mp/ea 002. )

pcstlives

Nettie beamed at the confirmation he would help, motioning to her recently installed Craft Supervisor (Miss Helen) that they'd be back in five or ten minutes. "Rest assured, I will provide very clear and specific instructions." With a brusque and purposeful stride, she started in the direction of the supply closets, the noise of the rec center fading as they moved. "I just wanna make sure they have enough supplies to last until pick up. If there's a shortage of pipe cleaners, we might have a mutiny on our hands."

The other option was a fun movie, but honestly, they didn't have a big enough TV screen for all the kids to sit around at the same time. She filed it away as a backup, maybe they could use some staff laptops and devices to make up the deficit.

Realizing she hadn't introduced herself, a half-apologetic, half-grateful smile took shape on her lips. "Thank you for helping." It was generous; a quality she'd found that surprisingly fluctuated quite a bit, between volunteers. "I don't think we've met. Antoinette Parker."

mosespersaud

"A pipe cleaner mutiny? What is the world coming to?" He asked, his tone light. "We definitely can't have that."

She was slightly less business and a little sweeter as she introduced herself. "It's no trouble, really. Sports are weathered out, so I wasn't sure how I was going to fill my time today. Moses Persaud. Nice to meet you, Antoinette."

#( threads. )#( th; nettie )#( m; nettie )

ofresoluxe

Naomi laughed under her breath as she read his message, amused by the reassurance that he too had not stolen so much as a bite. At least he had a conscience. He had that going for him. She glanced at the time, debating if she had the energy to deal with another delivery disaster, go home and cook something for herself, or eat Mo’s food. None of those particularly appealed to her, and her stomach was already making the decision for her. >> You’re in luck–I’m actually near the museum right now. Want to meet up in the parking lot? She didn’t need to share that she worked at the museum, and at least if they met here, she could have the security guards keep an eye out for her if anything went south. Naomi walked back to her office to grab her coat and bag, and before leaving, asked one of the security guards to just keep an eye out for her in the parking lot. She waved goodbye and walked out into the crisp night. A food handoff should be simple enough.

mosespersaud

He didn't entirely know what to expect, but it wasn't a long enough walk to the museum parking lot for him to build any kind of expectation. It took him longer than he would've liked to pack up the rest of his stuff, but he did his best.

Sure she would've beaten him there because the zipper had gotten stuck on his laptop bag, he was surprised to see the only other person in the parking lot, just opposite him, arriving at the same time.

"Naomi?" He called when he was the equivalent of a few parking stalls away, the air just sharp enough for his voice to carry.

#( threads. )#( th; naomi )#( m; naomi )#( mp/nm 001. )

pastghcsts

Eliana feels herself frown slightly at Moses’s tone — he sounds annoyed, or frustrated, or something of the sort, enough so that he leaves zero room for interpretation when he tells her they should talk about this another time. It goes unsaid, but the words are as clear as they would be if they appeared as closed captions right below Moses’s profile: Leave it alone.

She turns away at the words, hoping she looks as mildly inconvenienced as she feels — after all, she’d picked this battle to fight this battle, not to be immediately forced into surrender — and that he doesn’t catch the small flicker of hurt she feels flash across her expression uninvited, because she’s better than that, and she knows, abstractly, that his tone probably has more to do with his discomfort than her pressing. Logic’s never had a place in her immediate reactions to anything Moses, though, so she’s unsurprised that does little to ease the sudden tension in her shoulders.

“Fine,” she replies flatly, avoiding his gaze. Never let it be said that Eliana Ayala doesn’t know when to quit — all evidence to the contrary before this notwithstanding. He tells her the point is taken, and she wants to say something snippy, or challenging, like, I’ll believe it when I see it, but she keeps it to herself. Last thing she needs is to give him a reason to (correctly) point out she’s being childish, all because a conversation didn’t go her way, so she lets the moment pass between them and forces the alcohol in her system to turn any lingering hurt and/or disappointment into fuel.

She feels herself come back into her body at his ridiculous Ghostmates joke, offering him one loud, unattractive snort for his troubles. Ellie’s gaze turns back to Moses’s, lips curled upward in amusement, and contentment, even, at his predictable willingness to play along with her ridiculous imaginary scenarios.

“Maybe there’s ghost currency,” she offers thoughtfully, humming as she tries to rationalize a completely made-up job in this completely made-up scenario. “Or like — karma points. You know, the more they help a ghost, the more good karma they accumulate for when they inevitably croak,” she grins. “And they get real money from, y’know, the living trying to communicate with the dead.” She holds out her arms, like she’s just solved an unsolvable puzzle. “It’s a win-win, Persaud. I cracked it! You know I cracked it.”

Ellie’s not exactly sure how to point out to Moses that just because it’s everyone’s desire doesn’t mean it can’t still be a secret, personally. She’s certainly never been one to divulge her romantic desires. She knows it’s not fair, but being a woman in journalism was hard enough without also admitting to, like, wanting things in her personal life. She supposes it’s what’s made her such a bad girlfriend throughout the years — is shocked her longest relationship lasted up to the year mark, if she’s being completely honest with herself.

Though Moses’s practical sentiment about love does at the very least coerce a disapproving hum from her. Just a slight one. But she’s not gonna argue, because then she’ll show her cards and, like, have to admit that there’s a part of her buried deep beneath piles and piles of cynicism that basks in the romanticism of impracticality, of beating the odds, of having love notes written in the steam of her mirror, or whatever.

So she just hums. And lets that topic die, too.

She’s dropping a probably-too-much amount of bills on the counter for the bartender as Moses finishes the rest of his drink, looking like he’s been electrocuted by it. Ellie bites back her laughter at the sight — it’s cute, in that way she’s found most of what Moses does cute since they were five and he’d looked apprehensive of most of her playtime choices — then turns to him with a roll of her eyes. “Leave the big fat tip I know you want to leave for the bartender and follow me,” she instructs, already making her way toward the igloo dome’s exit. She looks back over her shoulder with a grin and calls out, “We’re getting matching beanies.”

mosespersaud

He can't fully explain his discomfort or why he shut her down, but it's out of his mouth before has a chance to process it. It's out there and he can't take it back and she's turning away and he doesn't know exactly what her take on it was, but she just looks more tense than she did a minute ago and he hates it immediately.

She gives him the fine and not much else, not even eye contact, and his stomach drops a little more. He tries to remind himself not to lock his jaw, they're not fighting and it's probably not that bad. Right?

Then why does he feel terrible?

It loosens a little when she laughs, when order is restored, and as the whiskey spreads through him. He wants more, which means he shouldn't have it. He also doesn't need it if she's laughing and they're moving on.

"It sounds plausible," he agrees, but that's the furthest he's willing to get into it because it sounds ridiculous and he's not sure he can keep up with the details she would fill in by committing, like a points system and a name for ghost currency, and markets where various death-themed goods are exchanged.

He watches her settle up, even though there's no tab, and thinks he probably doesn't need to do what he'd thought about doing when she's more than covered it, but he drops his twenty in there anyway and then follows her. "I'm up for it, but no pom-pom on top. That's my only rule."

#( threads. )#( th; ellie )#( m; ellie )#( event: snow frolic )#( mp/ea 001. )

rainoban

Amara huffed out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Alright, I’ll let you off the hook this time. But if you plan on hitting people with lines like that, you might wanna workshop them first—maybe test them on a focus group.” She shot him a teasing look before taking a sip of her drink.

“At least I’m a better distraction than whatever was going on in your head. Though, if I suddenly hear you muttering about existential dread, I might start charging for my services.” She tapped her glass, her smile widening. “And before you ask, no, this isn’t some complicated, fancy cocktail. It’s just a ginger beer. Alcohol-free, because I have the tolerance of a toddler and would rather not embarrass myself in public. What about you? Something equally dangerous, or are you the adventurous type?”

mosespersaud

Moses laughed also. "Fair enough, but I have a focus group of one available, and she'll just tell me anything I'm planning to do is bullshit. She's not the most objective source. Do you have resources I could use from time to time?"

He shook his head. "No, no, it's nothing like that. My existence is fine. I guess I'm just a little... lonely and I don't really know how to change that." He raised his eyebrows, definitely amused and definitely not wanting to laugh at her. He had a feeling the repression of it could be seen in dimples despite his beard. "That's fair. Dignity is always worth a little maintenance. Mine is just a beer. No ginger. I don't drink a lot so I don't usually go for strong stuff."

#( conversations. )#( m; amara )#( c; amara )#alcohol tw

lcvesnvrlcst

Estelle needed a drink, but despite owning a bar, wasn’t exactly feeling like The Bank this evening. Maybe perhaps it was the fact that she tried hard to keep her work life and personal life as separate as she could, and decided to venture out elsewhere. The Willow Tap wasn’t somewhere she frequented often, but it had what she needed: ambient music, comfortable seating, strong alcohol.

She was only going to stay for one, but the crowd was soothing as it was welcoming, and had been chatting to a few individuals that were becoming fast friends for the evening. And well, what was waiting for her back at the townhouse? Maybe she should have gotten a cat or something, and have something to look forward to when coming home after an increasingly long week at work.

But the group of wine-moms she had befriended were a good surrogate for whatever emptiness she was feeling that night, and when one of them had managed to convince the others for a round of shots, Estie offered to pay. She had reached the bar, trying to get the bartender’s attention, when she heard the man next to her speak. Estie huffed out a laugh, turning to him with a curious glance. “If I was that distracting, surely I’d have been the first person served by now. I’d offer you a shot, but it might be closing time by the time I get seen.”

mosespersaud

Moses had been braced for a laugh, and he was glad she took it lightly, but her follow up comment made him frown a little. Not because he'd done anything to make her situation worse, but because she was in the situation to begin with. And she definitely wasn't wrong, the bartender clearly not having their best night, either.

"It might have more to do with the group you've been sitting with and the amount of wine they've had. The bartender might be afraid of what you're about to order." He leaned a little closer, just enough to be heard if he lowered his voice. "I think this one beer of mine just about stretched him to his limit." He didn't want to rush in a fix it like a man, but he was now invested in making sure she could order next if he had any say in the matter. "How can I help?"

#( conversations. )#( c; estelle )#( m; estelle )#alcohol tw

jamesselroy

If there was one thing James had promised to himself over the last six months, it was that he wouldn't let himself hole up in apartment. Sure, life was different than how he imagined it would be for him and it would be so easy to become a hermit. But that had never been him and he refused to let it overtake him now. Which is how he found himself sat at bar at almost ten pm with a coke in front of him. Had it been months ago, James was sure he would have been slamming back beers without a care in the world. But that was James before, this was James now. That's how it felt these days, a before and after accident him, figuring out what life had dealt him, what his new norm would be like.

But if he was anything, he was determined. One of his hands resting next to his soda, fingers lightly tapping along to the music that hummed over the jukebox, his eyes on the game on the tv. Not giving much thought to anything else, that was until a voice broke its way through to him. Turning to look at the other man, eyebrows raised enough to disappear into the shaggy curls across his forehead.

"For a second thought you might have been talking to me but I don't think there's that much alcohol in your drink for that." He all but scuffed back, shaking his head as he reached for his soda, taking a small sip of it and sitting it back down. "Might be much drunker than you think you are." James added with a small laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement.

mosespersaud

Of course it was the guy watching the game on the small television perched above the bar who caught Moses' comment. He chuckled, accepting it easily because at least there was someone to talk to. Finally.

He shrugged. "Maybe I was. How's the game?" He asked, jerking his chin toward the screen. You could take the jock off the field, but you couldn't take the obnoxious nods out of the jock. "I normally pay closer attention, but the television is small and the bar is kind of loud."

#( conversations. )#( m; james )#( c; james )

rainoban

Amara had just wrapped up a meeting with some prospective clients on behalf of her brothers —because, of course, they couldn’t be in the U.S. on time— and after a night of schmoozing and making polite conversation, she figured she’d earned a moment to herself. The Willow Tap wasn’t exactly her usual kind of spot, but it was close, and the idea of sitting for five minutes with an alcohol-free drink before heading home to answer emails felt like the bare minimum level of self-care.

She had just taken her first sip when the man beside her turned and hit her with a line she hadn’t been expecting.

Look, I'm just trying to drink here, but you're very distracting.

Amara froze for half a second, blinking at him, before a slow smirk curved her lips. “Oh?” she mused, setting her drink down with exaggerated care. “And here I was, thinking I was minding my own business. Should I apologize, or is this a good kind of distracting?”

She let her gaze flick over him —just a quick, curious once-over— before giving a dramatic sigh. “You know, if I had a dollar for every time a man told me that, I’d have… well, one dollar now.” Amara grinned, eyes glinting with amusement. “So tell me, do you say that to everyone sitting next to you, or am I just the lucky one tonight?”

mosespersaud

Moses was in luck because she smirked at him, and he had to repress his own grin. "I don't think you should ever apologize. We'll see if it's the good kind of distracting as we go along. I was just alone with my thoughts and, well, they're kinda bleak tonight so I'm sure it's better than that." But yeah, he clearly hadn't been thinking before he dropped the absolute line, and he didn't think anyone should have to apologize for just sitting somewhere quietly.

He stopped trying to repress his grin. "But it's weird that it's happened once? I mean, first time for me." He flicked his eyes toward her glass. "What are you drinking?"

#( conversations. )#( m; amara )#( c; amara )#alcohol tw

pastghcsts

Eliana’s sure that she doesn’t mean to look so incredulous when Moses talks about going out, but then again, is it really her fault this is practically her Pavolvian response when she’s listening to bullshit? She wonders if it’s worth poking this specific bear, too — seems to be the theme of today. Picking her battles. She’s not been very good at it, historically, often picking every battle ever thrown her way out of sheer stubbornness, but things are different, when it comes to Mo. Things are always different, when it comes to him. Seems to be the only person in the world who can both talk and/or coerce any sense or reason out of her. She wonders if she’d’ve ended up in the situation she’s in now if he’d been closer to her, when it was happening — if their conversations hadn’t needed to be so condensed, existing through text messages and the endless wiring of phone calls.

Well, she figures she’s let enough slide this time around. One out of three isn’t so bad, right? “When was the last time you went out for the sake of going out?” she challenges, eyebrow curved perfectly upward, whiskey hovering near her lips. “And I don’t mean dragged out. By me, by your coworkers, by anyone else,” she warns, knowing he can probably use his other friends as cover if she doesn’t cover those specific parameters. “I mean out, because you wanted to have some fun.” Christ, she supposes he could find a way to get away with that one, too, because she doesn’t doubt Moses finds something like shopping for color-coded underwear fun or some shit, but she’s prepared to call him out on that, too, if she needs to. She’s clearly got enough pent-up curiosity stored in her body by now.

She listens, then, as he tries his very best to deliver a response to her question about being haunted dearly — seems to not even believe himself as he talks, which is enough for Eliana to crack a smile. “So exactly what you do now,” she points out, then pauses. “Actually, you don’t leave me any love notes in the steam on my mirror. Kind of shitty of you to plan to wait until you’re dead to do that,” she adds, mock offense in her tone, faux disappointment etched onto her expression. “Very interested to know how a ghost ensures the fridge stays full, though,” her expression clears to make way for one of curiosity, as if she’s actually considering the logistics of such a thing. “Ghost grocery stores? Oh, my god, do you think there are mediums whose sole purpose is to take grocery orders from ghosts?”

Her grin widens in both amusement and excitement as she takes downs the rest of her whiskey in one go, setting the glass back down on the bar and waving the bartender over to ask for another. Once she does, she turns back to Moses as he talks about the trumpet player, sparing the poor soul a glance toward the stage before meeting her best friend’s gaze again. “Oof, lotta judgement coming from that side of the bar,” she says, gesturing to the general vicinity where Moses stands. “Isn’t it everyone’s secret desire to be loved for and despite the choices we make — less sexy instrument and all?” She lowers her voice down an octave for that last part, doing her best impression of Moses. Her best is still terrible, but she’s amused enough with herself that she marks it off as a success.

The bartender’s back with her second drink, and she takes it from him with another smile and a thank you. Turns back to Moses, who’s lamenting the lack of pickle juice available, and shakes her head. She means it to be judgmental — doesn’t think it quite exactly lands that way. Feels herself look fond, more than anything. Hard to be anything else, when it comes to Mo. “I’d rather you have whiskey breath than pickle breath,” she tells him, a lame attempt at pointing out a bright side to the sorry selection of alcohol this bar set-up seems to be saddled with. “And so will the Whiskerinos judges, I’m sure. They’re gonna be all up close and personal,” she reminds him with a crooked smirk. “You know. To make sure it’s up to snuff.” She resists the urge to reach out and pat it again, mostly because she knows that’s one of the topics she’s decided to save for later, and the action might just drive her to pick it back up again without meaning to. “Drink your whiskey, Persaud. We might still have time to shop around some of the stalls before the contest starts.”

mosespersaud

And then she's calling him out in a way he hoped she wouldn't. He holds strange eye contact at her, or stares at her if that's what you'd rather call it, as he takes an almost uncomfortably long drink from the whiskey that doesn't have enough in a glass to bear the full burden of his lack of reply. It's more about the timing than the volume of liquor, though, so the glass is still not quite empty when he pulls it back from his mouth.

"I don't know. I didn't exactly come home and write about it in my dream journal," he sidesteps, a little more sharply sarcastic than is characteristic in an effort to shrug off her words. He's still racking his brain, trying to remember what would answer her question. The sad truth is, if he's not at work, he's at home with her. If he's neither of those places, he's at the Boys and Girls Club or with his Little League team. There was one team dad last year, freshly divorced, who invited him out, but he didn't go. It has always seemed to him, when he's coaching, like that role should be separate from a social life.

Much like it's strange to run into a teacher from school at the grocery store, it's probably weird as hell if your Little League coach is at your house on Sunday watching a football game. He wouldn't know; his parents were never social, too stretched thin to be anything other than baseline existing. They certainly didn't socialize. Maybe that's why he doesn't. It was never modeled for him, that it was normal to go out and to be carefree.

All of this is way, way too much introspection for a night out with Ellie. She's always been the bright spot, always been the fun, and he's sure he's told her that no less than a thousand times. Their present reality is they're pre-gaming (or mid-gaming, maybe?) so strangers, who are going to potentially give him, like, a gift certificate for beard lotion and braid-in beads, can fondle his face and give their approval. It's not that serious. "We should talk about this another time," he says, and it's not even a graceful redirect as much as a shut-down. "But maybe I should start going out more. Point taken."

With that, he finishes the whiskey and it's rough and he wishes there was a pickleback to offset the kick in his jaw, but there isn't. It doesn't stop him from catching the bartender's eye and nodding for another one.

"Ghostmates instead of Postmates," he cracks, the whiskey doing just enough to loosen the knot between his shoulders and his tongue at the same time. He doesn't say this newly-relaxed version of him is going to start tracing something on her bathroom mirror so it'll be there the next time she showers, but the wheels are already turning in the back of his brain. It's happening. "How would they get paid, though? I can't imagine that's the sort of job that keeps you going on the emotional fulfillment of it all."

They're a little out of sync, mainly in the timing of their drink orders, and he's pretty sure he catches the bartender sigh as she orders right on the heels of him handing Mo the one he'd motioned for only moments previously. He makes a note to drop the emergency $20 he carries into the tip jar when they go.

"If it's everyone's desire, I don't think it's a secret," he points out objectively. "And it's not a judgment. We never really know what's happening behind closed doors. Maybe the trumpet player is thoughtful, but the sax player has a stock portfolio. Or maybe the trumpet player is a full time musician, but it's a side hustle for the sax player so he's got health insurance. I couldn't fault her for that in this economy. Love doesn't pay bills."

It is not worth mentioning that love pays bills in the sense that you'll pay someone's bills if you can so they don't have to worry about the cost in a time of stress. It's not worth mentioning he invited her to live with him under a similar premise. He also doesn't know why that's where is mind flickers to, so he sips his drink to shut it down.

But then she shakes her head fondly, offers an opinion about the quality of his breath, and he can't exactly think of another topic. So he just does as he's told, finishing his second whiskey with no hesitation but a lot of reaction after. He's still shuddering a little as he chokes out his next, which probably sounds more stern than he means it to on account of he thinks he's going to die. "Okay, let's go then. What are we looking for in the stalls? Or are we doing that browsing thing that's such a waste of time?"

#// seems to be our pattern. I don't mind.#// i will not kick u in the head but i might kiss u in the cheek #( threads. )#( m; ellie )#( th; ellie )#( event: snow frolic )#alcohol tw #death tw #i guess? idk what to call it at this mid/late stage of the convo #( mp/ea 001. )

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