Loki glanced up from his book briefly, then paused,blinked,and lifted his head for a more thorough examination just in time to be struck with some force by the girl’s… was that an actual parasol?
“Yes, it was,” he offered curtly, all but scolding her with expression and tone. He’d killed men for less, but this? This was a child. From his perspective,at least. Some of the hardness faded from his eyes, the set of his mouth softening as he folded the book across one knee. He had his own connections to make, but some time to spend before that, at least.
“And why, pray tell, do you burden yourself with such a contraption? I understand they’ve been out of fashion here for a century or more…” Odd that he was curious, but there it was. Everything about her screamed “rebellion” and “misfit” at high decibels; two things he could certainly identify with.
Still, he sat unsmiling in his crisp black suit, touched only by the traces of green in his intricate (and no doubt expensive) scarf and the silken lining of his coat, which was unbuttoned. Apart from the long, dark hair pulled partially back in a rudimentary ponytail, he could easily have been a disapproving businessman.
Well that was just rude. She’d apologized, after all. He was supposed to accept the apology; tell her it wasn’t a big deal. Which it wasn’t. Her parasol was bamboo and fabric - nothing that would hurt someone. He wasn’t supposed to give her a look that said better-behaved people would control their parasols in the worst of winds.
Vivian was skilled by now in faking emotions, but far less so in keeping them off her face; her mixture of equal parts hurt and annoyance (he wasn’t following the rules) was probably written clear upon her features. The desire to end the conversation now warred with deeply-rooted politeness. He had spoken to her, after all, and to just ignore him would be rude - and she’d been raised to be polite. In the end, she refrained from shifting her parasol to put it between the two of them, but kept her eyes on the phone in her lap.
The one earbud remained in her ear, a hint that she wasn’t interested in talking to strangers. Or anyone, really.
His speech was interesting - it felt different, in a way she couldn’t quite name. Much in the way she’d been able to say which phrases or patterns of speech were right the first time she’d taken the SATs simply by how they felt when she read them, Vivian had a feel for speech and grammar that she couldn’t explain. And her companion’s speech didn’t quite fit what felt normal.
Nor did his outfit, really, for someone sitting on a bench in the park. There were law firms nearby in town; maybe he belonged to one of them.
He was attractive, in a “he’s way too old for me” way.
“The sun and I are not on speaking terms,” she answered him, trying to fit as much of herself into the shadow of her parasol as possible, and still not looking up from her lap. Her father wouldn’t be there for at least another half an hour. Vivian was facing the prospect of having to make conversation with a stranger. “I burn easily,” she lied. Well, partially lied. It was true - but it wasn’t why she carried the parasol.