#chat: malcolm

[alessaoberti]

“A glass of champagne, please,” Alessa ordered from the bar. She wasn’t the type of woman who frequently drank but she certainly didn’t mind indulging at events such as these. For one, her children were safe at home with the nannies and for two, some of these events got rather boring. This one certainly fit the bill. Did anybody really care about what was going on? She suspected that most people showed up for the free stuff, rather than the speeches, which she was sure would be absolutely thrilling. “Thank you,” she said as she took her glass and turned, nearly bumping into someone. “Oh, i’m so sorry,” Alessa said with a laugh. She nearly did a double take when she recognized Malcolm Greengrass, the man that she had flirted with at the bar that night. “Well well well, i’m not surprised to find you here,” she greeted. “How are you? You seem to be in a much better mood tonight,” she teased him. @themalcolmgreengrass

[pretendsweetly]

( @agaywad )

Something about summer made the shop even more obnoxiously oppressive; the air conditioner humming loudly broke the usual dead silence that occupied most of the space almost all of the time, the place somehow managing to stay afloat even though no one had visited it for longer than twenty minutes in probably six months.

Made for an easy job, at least. 

So there he sat behind the till, perched on the edge of his stool so as to lean fully over the counter top, immersed in the Life of Captain Marvel, when the sound of the door’s chime nearly shocked him off his seat. Yanking his earbud out, Malcolm bolted upward immediately, like his pretend-amazing posture was going to be the thing to sell a book. He watched the woman, wide-eyed and moving with both the precision and speed of some sort of jungle cat, as she stalked toward him. 

“Hey, how ar--” 

Her hand smacked something down on the counter in one fluid motion, the suddenness cutting his greeting off. He glanced down, her retreating hand now revealing a ripped off piece of a legal pad’s paper, a jumble of words written in looping script, circled in red. 

He blinked.

He recognized the title not because of its’ name, but because of its’ title. Something Latin, he would guess. When he looked up to the woman, he found her eyes on him expectantly, as if she already knew the string of questions this sort of request would bring-of course she did--and did not need to hear them by some random wanker reading a comic book--of course she didn’t. But it wasn’t like he had anything else to say, other than the obvious: what in the fuck would you want this for?

So instead, he went for something more polite:  “This one’s quite a rare.”