volatile times;

Jane Markhoff Ramirez. Older than you. Probably better off than tú madre. Don't like what I do? Not my problem, querida. "I had always dreamed to find someone like you. Then I woke up."

[samueloreally-blog]

Here was the thing about Samuel: he could cut his life into fragments and be able to recall exactly how the pieces fit together. Despite the randomness he appeared to have (in the way his hair fell in every direction, in the way his hands never stilled until he was drawing straight lines, in the way he stuttered over the word epitome because he read it incorrectly as a child and never fucking recovered), his life wasn’t random. He could retell any event with clarity and it would sound so boring and expected. He didn’t mind it in the moment, but when he looked back, he was —- dissatisfied. Or maybe it was more like he was unsettled, because shouldn’t he be excited when he recounted particles of his life?

It wasn’t like he dwelled upon those thoughts often. But when he did – like now for some reason – he always concluded that he’d rather have those fragments not fit so nicely against each other; there should be gaps between them, holes that didn’t shape themselves to be something perfect.

God, this is not what he should be thinking about when across from someone incredibly interesting.

But she is random, right? Blind dates could shape to a catastrophe or something brilliant, and he had meant it when he told her he wouldn’t mind if he gained a friend rather than a relationship from this. Meeting people was the solution to his problem (which wasn’t a problem, really, more like a preference, and god fucking dammit Samuel, WOULD YOU STOP?), but it didn’t mean he liked many.

But he liked Jane so far. Which was something good. ( yeah, it was definitely good, and he hoped she was enjoying herself)

“Second time drinking champagne?” he asked because damn, he really needed to pay attention. “Really? ——– I don’t know why I’m sounding so shocked, it’s not like I drink champagne all the time.” With a chuckle, he straightened his napkin and added, “I hope you enjoy this second glass. If not — it can be one of the lessons of what not to order.”

Maybe she would take it as a sign of something bad creeping into the date. Or her taste buds. She did have a point, he knew, of adapting to what happened. After all, that was the point to life — change was inevitable.

“Accept it, yeah, and it is about deciding how to adapt, since we only have control over ourselves. How we view those bad aspects, how we decide to keep going — maybe that proves whether you live for the good or for the bad.”

Shrugging, he gave a bashful smile because, once again, he was talking too much. He returned to the menu, giving a hum at her choice while his eyes darted to and fro across the names of multiple dishes.

“Can’t ever say no to entertainment. And I’ll say it’s daring for the fact that I’ve never tasted it before, so for all I know, it’s a spicy dish and I’ll be amazed if you handle that hotness.” Wow, you have such a way with words, Sam.

He flicked his gaze back to her at her question, pursing his lips as he mentally counted the years. “I think it will be five coming up in June. Moved to Missouri from Illinois for college, and then there to the city after I was offered a full-time position at a graphics company.” Placing his menu down, he folded his hands on the table, leaning forward as if forgetting he shouldn’t slump. “Now the question back at you; how many years have you’ve been in the city? What brought you here? And —- do you enjoy the sights?”

[plainjanemarkhoff-blog]

Here, in the almost middle of things, was where she began to wonder what on Earth her coworker had been thinking, setting her up with a man like this. Almost out of her element, not fitting into the moulds she attempted to shove him in without his knowledge, talkative, humorous in it to the point where she had cracked smiles without thinking, despite their small size, and conversation which was able to continue in a rather avid flow between the two of them. The distance between their individual forms lessened, despite the table still which separated them. Jane felt a little frantic realising that this blind date was going much different than she had expected, that it was turning out so well. She was just waiting for something to wrong, anticipating the drop that would ruin it.

Yet that drop did not seem to be coming. Even as she sometimes threaded her reactions as such, never were they taken incorrectly. It was always steered back on course, as though there was a road the both of them travelled upon. And he had the nice smile, then the bashful one, and he was apologetic for his nature when he didn’t need to be. ( If only some of those before him had gained such insight and apologised for who they were; and they needed to! )

As she thought, she reached for the flute of champagne and took it into the delicate hands with the reverse manicure, nails clinking against the side with such fragility, she thought she might shatter it. It wouldn’t be the first time she touched something lightly and broke it into irreparable fissures. It also wouldn’t be the first time someone darted forward to take the blame for her mistake, as in the waiter, apologising for the glass, asking that the restaurant replace them. The world sometimes bowed at her feet, and Jane could enjoy that attention, but she didn’t like the spotlight on her all the time. ( Well - perhaps she did, but not in that manner, not all the time. ) Now, she was growing comfortable in this sort of out-of-her-element interaction. Her nerves were calming down.

She took a drink out of the flute and clacked her tongue against the roof of her mouth as the champagne bubbled across her teeth. She could smell the taste of the foam at the back of her nostrils, and it was overall a pleasurable drink. So much so that she took another. It was as though she consumed stars.

“Second time, I promise. It is not the drink of choice for me, either. I am more accustomed to the, I suppose, simpler alcohols. Not so elegant.” Not so classy, was what she implied. There was no such thing as champagne in a stripper’s club. Not champagne that made constellations glitter on its surface. “But it is a worthy second time drinking it. I recommend trying it yourself. It acts both as a palette cleanser and a heady experience.”

Some would wonder whether she was persuasive in the occasions of making people drink - and it was true that she was. Only if she wanted to be left alone. She could turn their focus on the alcohol and slip out of sight. But that was different this time as well. She truly just wanted him to try and enjoy it. Strange.

“Perhaps it is. Considering some people choose to stop rather than go. Which is rather frustrating.” She wasn’t one of those people. She kept going no matter what obstacles were slammed down in front of her. She replaced the flute on the tabletop and her own smile was leonine. Handle the hotness. “It can be a rather divine cuisine if you want it that spicy. A celestial seasoning, as it’s called. I can handle it, but could you? The mystery that remains unsolved tonight.” She returned the lack of eloquence with a quip of her own.

Five years. Much longer than she herself. Tapping her nails against the top of the menu, she noted to herself that the waiter was about to approach again. “I have been here only two years, unfortunately. But those years seem so long. And it was work which brought me here. There are no jobs down in Caborca, where my family lives in Mexico.” A soft h-sound on the x. “Unless you are either a hard labourer or a superstar, and I am neither. These sights are promising, though I might admit that I have not seen much of them. Too focused on attempting to - stabilise myself.” Working two jobs was not quite the way to do it. And the sights she’d seen - well, it wasn’t the sort he inquired about, that much she did know. “Which is easier said than done.”

[samueloreally-blog]

She appeared taken aback by what he said, and that caused him to pause. Other’s reactions to what he said were usually lost in a rush; in the workplace, he had to dart from one place to the next to find the right color ink or his focus was so intent on his computer that losing people’s reactions seemed natural. But in this type of setting, where his attention was directed at another wholly and fully, he could notice a few details. And that made him clear his throat and make an attempt to smooth the wrinkles from his shirt.

He wasn’t even going try and tame his hair; that was a lost cause for all of time.

He had gone through this process before; not exactly a blind date, but dates nonetheless at this point in his life. Dates. Plural. Indeed, he knew he must have some kind of charm if there was at least one other woman who wanted to continue the thin thread of a relationship with him. And he too was capable of desiring for more, of not locking himself in his apartment and relaxing with too much TV or too much sketching outlines under dim lights. But that woman had faded, though the invisible scar was still red, still a touch too new. Still, there had to come a point where he didn’t simply go to work and then return home. His friends knew — and he knew — he wasn’t meant for that life, no matter how comfortable it was for a bit. 

And what good this kind of outing brought; his statement was careless in thought, seeing as they had only just met, but those few minutes was far more enjoyable than the few years spent working for his boss. He was honest. And she seemed to believe him by her answer. His lips curled back to a small smile, his hands resting on the table once more. He didn’t say anything, but some words weren’t needed. 

Then he laughed, shrugging and shaking his head. “Mine is certainly the type to take entertainment in some failures. Whether he was genuine or not, I think the focus here should be on drinking the champagne. Little indulgences like that do more good for something like this than one big, swooping grand gesture.” 

What are you even S A Y I N G?

Running his tongue over his teeth, he flashed another bright smile at her. Rambling again without a thought to fix the words into logical sentences; an absolute divine way to keep her from being confused. 

But when she continues, he cannot tell if she is unaffected. Perhaps she is, and he rests his chin in his hand. Unless you believe — there was plenty he believed, and of what he did, but as soon as his mouth opened, a waitress slipped by to their table. He waited with bated breath as she introduced herself, and Jane raised her brow with another question on her lips.

His lips twitched to a grin, his hand rubbing his chin in thought. “Champagne,” he chirps, a smile dancing across his face. The waitress — Hannah, he would remember the name — nodded and said she would give them more time to debate their order. When she left, he looked to the menu again, trying to find familiar dishes and argue with himself about trying something new.

Jane’s question still ran in his mind, though, and he peeked back at her to answer. “I think there can certainly be lessons from bad experiences. But I aim for good experiences all the time, and if those fail, then the lessons learned are what not to do. If that makes sense. It’s just — I’d rather live through more good than bad at this point in life.”

He cleared his throat and ducked his head to the menu again. He might have said too much, gone too deep once more for a start of a date, but the words were already loose to the air and there was nothing he could do. So he trailed a finger down the menu, tapping at names and ingredients. “The cuisine here is divine,” he sighed. “As is any dish with alfredo. I might have to go with a dish that has just that.”

[plainjanemarkhoff-blog]

People put far too much thought into their words before offering them up for dissection. It was almost as though they much preferred to think of their lives as extensive science projects whilst unsuspecting of the prospective results. Even if someone were to think through each item scrolling through their heads and not mention half of them, still there was that element of uncertainty. Still there was that mystery surrounding the myriad of reactions which could arise.

So then it couldn't be blame shuffled onto her for being taken aback. And it didn't seem as though that was the garnered reaction, for her to be blamed.

In her experience of dating, she had come across a multitude of figures, all of which could be shoved into boxes and promptly labelled. There were those who considered themselves to be part of the avant-garde movement of men who were all for the equality of women. Those men also considered themselves, most of the time and mostly because of this particular quality, to be therefore the most desirable of mates. But their conversation was cut, dried, boring and repetitive. Nothing she couldn't obtain from social media that hadn't been said a thousand other times by sympathetic celebrities. Some men considered themselves to be quite the catch - and took it to the point of exercising their powers of casanova extensions, hooking their claws into unsuspecting partners and dragging them down into the depths of the ocean. There were those who thought they loved you - and then ended up loving your pool boy instead.

Then there were the men like this. Who presented themselves and then did nothing to change whatever effects occurred due to it. These were the sorts who could not be placed into a particular box because all of the results differed from one another. These were the sorts of men who were dangerous.

( and she hadn't even named all of the kinds of men she'd run into, including the ones who wanted to be sugar daddies, the ones who felt as though dating someone younger would brighten their life, or the ones who were too young to realise the monstrosity they would become when their hearts were broken ) 

The fact of the matter was this: Samuel was not about to fit those categories. Not a single one of them. And Jane didn't like it. ( By this - she meant she did, and she admired it, but even admitting it to the mirror would be impossible. ) 

Plus, he had a nice smile. One that promised to be as bright as his spilled thoughts, which splattered like ink on the table.

And he decided on champagne. Classic. "Of course, we should - and hopefully it is to our acquired tastes. Though I daresay I will admit - some ignorance on my own part upon the drink; this would be only my second time in its consumption." 

Honesty? Jane could not believe she had even shared this much about herself. Though in the grander scheme of things, confessing that she was not a taster of champagne meant absolutely nothing.

"I think we would all much rather live for the good than the bad." 

She thought of her job. She thought of the hard cash it brought in, and the building resentment in the pit of her stomach against herself. She thought of all the contradictions, the loss of early childhood. She thought of it all in a few split seconds. "-- But alas, the bad creeps in when we least expect it. So we must adapt when it does so, and accept it would be a part of us."

Perhaps it was a rather cynical perspective, but she would not be herself if she did not profess her thoughts on it. And she did not change for anyone. No matter how quick her own infatuation and interest might be growing.

"Alfredo, it is always the respectable choice. If I defer to it, I choose the shrimp. However, I think tonight - I am feeling quite a little bit more daring. It will be the spaghetti alla carbonara for me. I do not think that is daring - but! we shall say it is for entertainment." 

The menu in her hands, which she had skimmed with lightning-quick vision, was folded and then rested at the edge of the table where she slid it, her nails tapping rather nervously at the binding on the edge. Acting younger than her preferred years, bah; she had no reason to feel as such.

"However, now it is time for the more personal questions." And she would ensure that she did not spill as much as she planned on extracting. It was her tactic. "How long is it you have been here in St. Louis?" 

[samueloreally-blog]

At these beginning moments, Samuel felt as if she was part of the serious category. But not without humor; after all, he had solicited a smile from her, and this was him not even trying. Well, trying in full. He wanted to at least appear composed, and that came from relying on all aspects of himself. Or most of them. He didn’t think his artistic style would be of much help right at that moment.

He gently bit his tongue. His thoughts needed to stop racing. He felt somewhat calm right then, but he didn’t want a sudden trailing of thoughts to send him overboard with nerves. 

So he laughed and nodded as he said, “Yes, you are not like my boss at all from what I can tell. No need for pretend I enjoy your presence.” And there goes being too forward, Samuel, you’re doing so great.

Puffing his cheeks, he soon continued with, “I’m sure they know each other well enough to trust the other’s judgement. Otherwise, I doubt we’d be sitting here. And you’re right — since they chose this environment to be so unlike where we work, it’s meant for us to get to know one another. See if we still enjoy each other before the night ends.”

The words stumbled from his mouth, just like everything else did in his life. Nothing was completely neat nor perfect. But there she smiled at him, and some comfort washed over him. That was a good sign. And he hoped they would continue far into the night (and maybe if something went right, for the next day).

Mente. Hearing the last part sparked the lessons ( of course it did then because nothing came to him when he wanted them to since they loved appearing suddenly and unexpectedly ), and he nodded. He knew that part to be added for adverbs, and he was able to understand she meant smoothly before she confirmed it. Point for him. Though he shouldn’t completely focus on Spanish for the whole night, never mind a point system. 

Clearing his throat, he mulled over the question for a few moments, taking his time as his finger drummed on the table. “I also go along the philosophy of one day at a time,” he finally agreed. Though there were times the construct slipped between his fingers, more often than not, he met each morning with some hectic form of acceptance that it was separate from the day before and the day after.

"Quite frankly, I suppose the question was an odd one, because for me, I don’t know enough about you to know how I want this evening to go. After all, the company you enjoy a night with can affect your wants greatly. But I suppose I would want this to be enjoyable — for the both of us. If I get a new friend out of this, great! Though those who hooked up this date might weep in tears if we don’t end up together. Adam — he can’t handle his manly tears."

Laughing a bit at the image, Samuel unrolled the napkin holding the utensils and laid it over his lap. And before he looked to the menu, he shot a glance back at Jane and shrugged. “But yeah, I think an enjoyable night would be the ultimate goal for me.”

[plainjanemarkhoff-blog]

It was somewhat difficult for her to uphold a conversation. It was not for the lack of attempts, nor was it because she detested it. ( However, she would have admitted, several times over, to her coworkers after a long night, that the drunken attempts at interaction were not ones in which she wished to partake. ) It was more of because things had to be sorted inside of her head where no one else could witness. Each word was a translation, a meaning and a pattern, a potential outcome. Not to mention after the long nights mentioned prior, speaking was the last thing on a lot of the clients' minds. To be a dancer and an impassioned partner of the pole, one had to expect no one would want to recognise there was a brain beneath that taut skin.

And then, those who wished to talk - she didn't want to hear their topics. Little captured her interest; rambling did no good in impressing her. Yet what struck her as an incredible difference between Señor O'Reilly and the rest of the people was that he was not attempting to impress. Indeed, even if the thought crossed his mind, she doubted he would be able to execute it. There was something almost painful about his genuine nature.

No need to pretend I enjoy your presence. 

Jane almost wished her skin was pale enough, just for a moment - so that he might see she blushed at this. It was more along the lines of a flush, she told herself ( a flush, and it was due to the draft from the doors at the front of the restaurant opening, and nothing more, mierda, comprendes ). So if she was in denial about it happening, then she was glad she was not pale as her counterparts, resulting in all of her secrets laid bare.

"Continue with the no pretending," was her smooth return, "and I promise that we will continue to get along quite well."

She smoothed down her napkin, and in the moment, ensured the skirt of her white dress had not slid up her thighs. It was a painstaking movement, as she did not want to show she was checking herself. But she was lucid in subtleties herself, where she did not have to move much to be confident, where she could jut her chin higher than the rest of them and be the sole Latina in the room, and still, she could remain content in herself. So as he let himself stumble over his words ( in his genuineness ) so she let herself be more comfortable in the seat. And as a bonus, her dress had not moved.

"With these friends at work, one can never tell. Perhaps this was done out of boredom for themselves, and the results would be - entertainment. If this is the case, we should beat them at their own game. Give them no negative to think about and toast with champagne." 

This was her black humour, her impishness. She recalled, a long time ago, a mother who had pointed a finger and scolded, and said, "Chica, puedes estar una mujer con una corazon negra. Necesitas parar estas frases antes de tu destruyes tu vida." But she had not listened, and here she was now. ( She could blame her destruction on it, and not her choices, but that would be foolish, and Jane was no longer a foolish girl. ) 

"And we shall, as well, aim for the enjoyable. For a night with little to no bad and all of this - good - would be enjoyable. Unless you believe in taking lessons and knowledge from bad experiences?" Which she did, and it was part of her life's philosophy. But it was un examen - a test. 

As he unrolled the napkin, the waitress approached, smoothing down her apron and introducing herself as Hannah, who would be taking care of them tonight. And she questioned after beverages, which made Jane look to Señor O'Reilly with an inquisitive brow. "Champagne or wine?" 

[samueloreally-blog]

Damn, should’ve paid attention in class.

The know-it-all side of his conscience took over, berating him for how, in all the classes he took of other languages during his college years, he never retained a single piece of information of S P A N I S H. And it continued to berate him for his appearance, his rushed speech, the way his mouth was open for all the flies to flit into ———

That thought had him snapping his mouth closed with a jarring sense. And then when he saw her hand approaching, he was still slow in the reaction to meet her halfway. 

Already, he was fumbling. But he had to think he had much more time to make up for the disastrous parts of his personality and deliver his — humor. He definitely knew had that as arsenal for situations like this one. Already, it was successful by the quirk of a smile that graced this girl’s features, and he for that, he was eternally grateful.

He could at least congratulate himself for retaining any piece of good humor he came across in his college years. That had to count for something.

"Well then, glad to know I won’t be putting on a lovely charade with you like I do to my boss. Let me tell you, pretending can get quite tiresome after a while."

W H O A, way too deep right off the bat.

Forcing himself not to clear his throat, he finally released her hand and nodded. “Right. We’re going to sit and order. My friend Adam brought me here a couple weeks ago, so I can attest to the fact that what they serve is pretty damn good.”

Quickly, he secured his sack, clipping the buckles that made sure sketches and designs wouldn’t threaten to explode into a tornado. Placing his work over the back of his chair, he ran his hand through his hair one last time to try and control the wisps that could alter his appearance into making him seem a bit too crazy.

"I’m afraid I don’t know Marie personally," he said, finally registering all of what she said as he took his seat. "But I think she — she knows my friend Adam. He hasn’t introduced us, but as much as he talks about her to me, I’m sure he does the same to her about me. But I’m glad what she’s told you matches what you see so far!”

Too peppy? Too much of a chirp? He hadn’t done first dates in a long while, much less blind dates. The last blind date he could recall was when he was fifteen and in a bad need of an attitude adjustment. He liked to believe he was a better person since then, but one could never be too sure.

Licking his lips, he forced himself to sit back against his seat and relax. He had worked with nerves before, and he would continue to battle and conquer them at every turn. This was a battle he would win, and he would enjoy a good conversation with Jane — hopefully. It would be good for the date to go well to continue a good conversation.

"Before I get caught rambling." he started, offering her a small smile, "How would you like tonight to go, Jane? In what you want to discuss, what you hope to happen, those sort of details?"

[plainjanemarkhoff-blog]

Well, the least she could remark within these seven seconds - he was quite the intriguing figure. ( Better than she had expected, she will admit. )

Her head canted to this side when he seemed to not realise what to do with her hand at first, but he recovered; Jane was a hard woman to peruse, but she was not one-hundred-percent merciless. Not with those who had not managed to place themselves into one of her numerous slots of labelling. Of course, once this happened, then his chances would dwindle into little else than happenstance to prove her initial thoughts about him.

She would also admit that she was - a little uncertain as to what to do with the humour. Just as he had stumbled with the hand, she was never the sort who could respond with comical retorts. Instead, she was the kind where people thought she was being sarcastic, bickering in good nature with them, and then she would deliver a line that ripped their corazon. 

Consider it a defence mechanism or just a character flaw, but Jane did not take joking well. Not when it came to serious situations.

Fortunately, for the both of them, there was nothing serious about this. In fact, the two of them were in the same boat: that of the blind date. They were both united in their uncertainties and nervousness.

Though she wasn't supposed to be, but she didn't follow the rules.

Her brows quirked upward as she glossed back into her seat and crossed one caramel leg over the other in a connected motion. "Indeed, I would pride myself on being nothing like your boss. No need for the superficial or the pretending. It would be rather unfortunate. -- Aren't these things supposed to be about getting to know one another? I do not think who we are at work needs to carry into this environment."

For a moment, she thought that perhaps she had been too aggressive. Not in flirtation, but in statement. Jane was a woman of opinions, one who did not resist throwing them out there before she could think them over. Her words formed before her thoughts could follow, and at times, she had kicked herself about it. But over the years, she had learned to embrace it.

And if it was not welcomed, it was not her problem.

"No worries. I do not know Adam personally, either. Though sometimes I wonder at just how well they know one another." One hand slid towards the menu, manicured nails clicking across its surface before she picked it up. "Believe me, Señor O'Reilly, if there is something I do not like, you will know."

However, she returned the small smile. Because it translated into: no worries about that for now. And he was even being rather forthright with intentions, with questioning before the date even started as to what she would want. What she would want. ( She would make a mental note of this designation, that it was she who was being thought of. )

"Suavemente. Smoothly, I do think. See whether the palpable chemistry is just a result of nerves or actual connection. I am a girl who is - living by the prospect of taking one night at a time, yes? Though do not allow me to be so domineering of this - do tell me what you would like from it all. Just because I may be willing to take it far as it would go does not mean you would."

[samueloreally-blog]

Speed-walking down the street, he slipped through the crowd with the experience of knowing how to avoid collisions. Which was good in this case; heaven forbid he look even more disheveled than he already was. Hair ruffled and sticking out on all sides, plaid shirt untucked, sack slapping against his thigh whenever he wasn’t holding the handle, he was a mess.

But this wasn’t any different than any other day. There was no point in actually trying to appear composed because he wouldn’t be able to maintain that look for longer than two hours. And that was him being lenient to himself.

                     ”Seriously man, why do I have to do this again?”                 “Because Sam, you are a piece of lonely shit.                 And we don’t want you to hit thirty and it be, like,                 ten years since the last time you got laid or were                 in a relationship.”                                ”Adam, my last relationship ended four months ago.”                    ”I don’t count that bitch.”                            ”You fucking adored her!”                   “Then she broke up with you.                    Listen, trust me, I set you up                   with someone who might be                    GOOD for you. Just head to                   the Italian restaurant we went                    to a couple weeks ago. That                   shit’s real! You’ll enjoy yourself,            PROMISE.”

"You’ll enjoy yourself, promise," he mimicked under his breath. He had better; he didn’t want to feel like he wasted his time, or worse, that he would be kicked like a puppy and sent away with his tail between his legs. He had enough of that type of bullshit in his life before today, and he wasn’t inclined to suffering more of it.

Forcing a smile on his face, he darted through the doors of the restaurant and slicked hand through his hair. As he tucked his shirt, he muttered to the host, “O’Reilly? Am I in the book?” From there, it was being led through door after door, weaving between tables, until the he saw a table already preoccupied.

Wincing, he glanced at his watch. 6:30 on the dot. He wasn’t late, but it would’ve been impressive if he made it there before the date did. Alas, such was the little blow life delivered him for that day. 

At least when he looked at her, the date was — well, beautiful wasn’t cutting it at the moment.

Clearing his throat, he murmured, “Thank you” to the waiter and held out his hand to the girl.

Damn, she’s pretty. And looks — young.

This had huge potential to be awkward or incredibly amazing. ( he was gunning for the latter; he was praying for it like crazy )

"Samuel O’Reilly. I’m really hoping you’re Jane? Because if not, then I’ll be pretending in about five seconds I didn’t say hi to you and —- act as if I need to head to the bathroom."

[plainjanemarkhoff-blog]

She did not know the usage of tardiness until she had lived in America. Then there were people who thought taking advantage of time was a good thing, and she could not stand such people. Just the thought of them, existing somewhere, thinking the world needed to be handed to them upon a silver platter without having worked - mierda, it made her sick. However, this supposed man whom her coworker had suggested she see - he was not close to being late. At least, not to his own standpoints perhaps.

Jane was a woman who arrived on the dot. Not a second earlier, and not a millisecond later. She had long since mastered the art of arriving to the ascertained location just as the clock switched to the predestined time. Such was one of the benefits for having lived too long in this universe.

(                "Listen, darling, just because you work a job that insists you stay out late at night doesn't mean you can't stay out late and do something better."                   -- "What are you calling my second job, señorita, a waste of time? Listen, I have bills to pay and things to do and going out on dates with cariños is not one of the things on my list, comprendes?"

"Just give this guy a chance, would you? He's not - stupido, I promise."

"He better not be, or else it will be more than just our boss telling you that you need to go to hell."                                                                       )

So she had gone to the recommended Italian restaurant, and she had arrived at the arranged time, right on the dot, and when she was seated, she tapped nails, long, black, glittering, against the cloth, which was white, taunting her about what she never would be. ( Virginal. Innocent. ) Against her greater will, she was becoming nervous. Girls like her weren't supposed to become nervous or uncertain of themselves. But she despised labels. And she would be nervous if she wanted to.

     Plus, she realised that there was a burning sensation      beginning in the back of her throat, and that was      putting her on edge because that could have bad      outcomes if she wasn't too cautious. Yet she was      exercising excellent self-control, as usual.

Then, there he was - perhaps fifteen seconds after she herself had been seated. She regarded his entrance with a little bit of an arched brow, the same side of her mouth soon following. He looked on the outside about as uncertain as she felt on the inside. But she was relieved that he did not happen to be one of those she considered cariños. At least, not at first. When he reached the table, she stood to greet him, making the movement slower than it needed to be - smoothing out the wrinkle in the white skirt of her dress and canting her head to the side, gold earring bouncing against the caramel of her skin. She had tried to be understated - -- but she had failed; Jane couldn't resist catering to her best attributes. Which was - almost everything she owned.

"Indeed, I am Jane." She wondered if he expected a Latina woman, if he expected her to still have the Mexican accent of her ancestors, if he expected anything at all, ( if he thought she was an airhead, to which he would be disappointed. ) Though his i n t r o d u c t i o n was amusing in its own right, and it earned a higher quirk of the corner of her mouth.

"No pretending or acting is needed, Señor O'Reilly," she said, reaching forward to grasp his hand firmly. "At least, not with me. I must say - I am content that Marie was not lying when she informed me about you. Shall we take a seat?"

[pink--princesa]