Re: Diner: Seven & Marta
Seven glanced down at his hands while Marta elbowed her way out of the parka’s heft. Determined as he was not to make her self-conscious under his gaze, he pretended to brush a speck of grit from his palm. It wasn’t easy, trying to analyze her well-being in casual glances between the details of her face and attending to his coffee, stirring in half a packet of sweetener with a willful fixation - but he managed okay, he thought. It helped not having the heavy hang of dirty-blonde across his eyes; he brushed a hand over the scrub of a buzz cut with two months’ growth, still too short to stick up in any way unkempt. It was an echo of the habitual motion that same hand would make against his beard, scratching blunt nails against the places on his neck where the hairs made him itch.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d want,” he said softly by way of apology, gesturing with a thumb at his coffee cup before lifting it up to take a sip. He’d thought about tea, maybe something herbal, but the diner’s selection was more than wanting. And anyway, it’d been too long for him to make assumptions like that. They were both different people, he figured. “You hungry?”