Who: Mordred and Badb When: Mid-Afternoon Where: A midtown Starbucks What: Random encounters 101 Rating: TBD Status: In Progress
"...oh, I don't know. You really think 'cornflower blue'?"
"Are you kidding? Absolutely cornflower blue."
Snippets of conversation the likes of this had a tendency to grate on certain psyches. The two women in line in front of Badb were discussing letterheads or nursery walls or the side of a fucking house for all she knew. The gentleman behind her offered no relief, yammering on his cell phone to some beast of a wife about their plans for Little Timmy's seventh birthday party in the burbs.
Mortals surrounded her, and not of the kind Badb liked. These were shells of their former primitive selves, existing on the fumes of passion, if anything at all. Drones that meander through their lives, content in mediocrity. Never really feeling anything.
I should buy a new shower head.
God, the gas prices are high.
Did I pay the phone bill?
Mind-numbing boredom rose from these people like a stink. Badb was just happy the smell of coffee overshadowed that; at least for the most part. Her turn at the counter produced little more than the upward twitch at the corners of her lips and an order for a large cup of bitter brew. Fuck the gibberish on the menu board above the mindless, soulless employees green-baseball hats. The last snobbish barista who had insisted they didn't 'serve larges' earned himself a rather obsessive shadow on his way home from work, and a three night stay in the hospital.
Who knew crackheads needed so little motivation? They'd have made wonderful warriors.
Badb paid for her coffee and settled for a moment at a single table in front of the picture window. How often had she heard the phrase 'idle hands are the devil's tools' or some similar malarkey: had she any semblance of self-reflection, she may have, at least in some part, agreed. Badb was perpetually bored, and seeking her own entertainment had become a very erratic series of adventures in her time here, flitting in the back of the minds of hard-core Irish heritage freaks--god love them. Or whatever the phrase was.
She hadn't planned on staying long, just enough to finagle the coffee, coat, and wallet; twenty seconds, tops. Her plans halted, however, when the annoyingly electronic bell at the door signaled more than just a fake tone.
Grey eyes peered, locked and tracking the profile of the young man sauntering in from the cold.
Well hello there.
In an instant, Badb's boredom washed away in a flash flood of ideas: none of which solidified quite yet. Curiosity was the name of the glint in her eye, and Badb eased into the chair, combing long olive fingers through her hair.