Re: Nick & Wren: Fortunes
Nick was a man who could appreciate a set-up as much as the next guy even if he looked for the strings behind the puppets, the shape of the stage. Stamped on the boards, if he could, because the only way Nick knew safety was to dig it out of the dirt hand over fucking fist. A set-up like this probably had a heavy near by, shouting distance. It wasn't the set-up (which was as innocent as a little kid's dream of the afterparty of a fortune-teller in the visual payload, compliments to the set designer, the Edith was a nice touch) but the nature of the shows that lined up along the walk behind the curtain of tents. And yeah, he knew. The rime of salt on the air and the corosive expectation in passers-by of finding something that wasn't exactly depravity but could be horse-traded for it over coffee or drinks.
Nah. She sat there, bare blond head gleaming clean under lamplight and the thing Nick fell for was that she looked for his face instead of where his hands were. Acres of time implied by the stillness of her hands, but that part wasn't true if the fortune cost cash money. This tiny economy of lit tents might not have another teller sitting cradled in lamp-light but it had other distractions. So time was cash, and Nick breathed in that certainty along with the heavy opulence of roses, cream and pretty-artifice. It was the place in Repose where it felt closest, that truth. Maybe if he'd visited the trailer-park nudged under the dark of the trees he'd feel it a lot closer, but Nick had no interest in getting his dick sucked for twenty bucks.
He fell ripe for the way she didn't look for how the chair rutted her carpet and ruined her illusion. Not that she could see a whole lot because Nick's chin was tipped low to watch where the hell he was going and it was only with the clip of the brake on the back of the wheels that he lifted his face to hers, and grinned dark in shadow. Strange as hell, this woman and he swept the hat off his head with the web of forefinger and thumb and knocked it into his lap.
"What kind of embellishment are we talking, here? Because if I'm Joe Public, and I believe my life is on the road to hell and I turn up here looking for truth in tea-leaves or how you hold my hand, how likely am I to believe the embellishment if it's better than the truth? Baubles or not, this place ain't Christmas, sweetheart." But his own tongue was flat against the jut of molars and Nick's eyes were laughter eve when his voice was rough interest instead of mirth out in front.
And he took full advantage of the opportunity to study her up close. A beauty, but she knew that and the costume glittered from the show before to remind her if she had a chance to forget. There was a look to her eyes - not in 'em, the pupils weren't macerated-dark by something in her veins or up her nose - that reminded Nick of people just woken from sleep. Still someplace else.
"Seeing as how I'm sitting here, and your rug is a nice affair but I think it tried to kill my wheels so I don't know how likely coming back is, how'bout we go for the full shebang? Truth me up, I can take it." Nick's eyes danced and the flat delivery did nothing to add gravity.