Re: Selina C/Jack P: the (bad) diner
She had a city idea of journalism, and one Jack had firmly closed the drawer on, key left in the lock. He remembered spotlights and he remembered glitz and keeping black tie in the pocket of his coat, just in case. There weren't many moments of 'in case' now, and he looked at her, chin in palm and watched the performance.
"What story don't you want to tell?" He asked it with perfect equanimity because Jack didn't think she was going to answer. Nah, glamor didn't stand up to scrutiny notwithstanding the polish of her performance in so small a theater, and shabby and unused to that kind of show, "Of course they gossip. But gossip isn't news, love. It's not anything but rumor and spite or embroidery on news. They gossip about me, they gossip about you."
A slug of coffee. "Big city girl, love affair gone sour, waiting out the time until he comes back to sweep you off your feet," hazardous guess, but Jack had heard it often enough in the back chatter.
Jack's view of the holidays wasn't steeped in cynicism like strong, cold black tea. But his view of people was sour with tannin. Jack liked Christmas, even if his teeth weren't quite squeaking on the manufactured sweetness. He liked Christmas cold, and pure blanched free from commercialism and he hadn't had it in years, too long to count. He had them worth remembering, that was the problem.