[She’s a conundrum, this one: all sharp, square jaw with feather soft brown hair and these eyes that could swallow a small moon, maybe– or maybe a dwarf planet or two if she were curious enough. Maisie’s all bounce and bubble, like some soap suds blown through a hollow wand on one of those summer afternoons, running barefoot in the back yard, giggled and grass-stained. But she’s anxious, too. Nervous. Fragmented in some ways, guarded in others.
The other Calyset ushers him over to a nearby table, and Isaac suddenly remembers that he’s still hooded like the Grim fucking Reaper. Like some goddamn Unabomber. He looks, without a sliver of a doubt, like a creepy asshole, which is partly what he’s going for, but within the pit of him, isn’t what he is. Hastily, he shoves the hood off, combing through his hair with a fidgety hand. Isaac takes a seat, and Maisie’s gone off– rambling through her work, flipping through her pages. She’s passionate, and maybe she’s embarrassed by it, because before long, her excited explanation rumbles to a low and muted silence, stopping herself before she gets too far. Commits blindly to a practical stranger; divulges without defenses.
But Isaac’s listening. And he wants to know. His eyes, just as wide. Just as curious.]
That’s cool. [He says, wishing he were a better linguist, or at the very least more expressive. But the thing is, he means it. He’s monotone, and stinted sometimes, edging on dulled and dry, but he’s true.] I don’t know anyone- [he corrects himself,] I didn’t know anyone into filmography. From before. Everyone’s into movies, but not everyone’s into making them. That’s-[he struggles for a word for a moment, before settling lamely on repetition] cool. [… Idiot.]
[Isaac’s attention flick down to the page Maisie’s stopped at, and a name he thinks he may recognize jumps out at him. He nods down to the writing.] What’s that about? [He asks, before giving in again to cautiousness, shaking his head a little.] But only if you want to– share, I mean.
[His movements are jerky and self conscious as he shoves his head out of the overhanging hood, but he joins her at the table readily. Isaac’s looking at Maisie and actually appears to be interested, those big eye flicking from almost meeting her own to being focused on her fidgety hands, but she can tell he is listening. Maisie smiles to herself, and takes a deep breath to steady her scattered thoughts.]
Couldn’t have said it better myself, I too think it’s cool [flashing him a reassuring smile she continues]. Well that’s because most people are interested in the end result. Where as I am more of a “journey” person if you will, I get excited by the building of the story - the final product is just an added bonus in my book. [The word book prompts her to glance down at her literal book and laughs] metaphorically that is, this book is nowhere near the final product, yet.
[The wide eyed boy is just as tentative as she feels, he’s a kindred anxious spirit. It is semi freeing to lay it all out there for another person, she’s on a roll now and doubt she could stop is she wanted too.]
[At his nod Maisie once again focuses on her notebook, the page she has paused on is an observation of her dorm-mates shuffling around preparing for the day]
Oh do you know Elsa? She’s also a Calyset and one of my dorm-mates [quickly scanning the familiar scribbles Maisie decides the recorded scrutiny is innocuous enough to share]. She’s impressive to watch navigate our room, especially in the morning when she is still a little sleepy. Elsa is never distracted though, her movements are always sure and precise.
[Maisie continues divulging tidbits about the girl, and her other roommates’ morning routines; they aren’t earth shattering records but sometimes people just need to hear about how everyday life goes on - even after the world almost ended].
