Re: Carriage House: Atticus & Billy
"Still picked a language most of them don't know," Atticus reasoned of the strangers. Wasn't argumentative. Was just a statement in the sticky heat. "Always assumed sex workers kept plenty of things to themselves. Am I wrong? Can't actually buy a person. Not what makes them a person," Atticus, as stated, had no experiences with prostitutes that didn't come on the page. Admittedly, the oldest profession was a very popular literary device. Writing was a reflection of the times and lives during which it was written, but it wasn't the same as experience. Was the reason Atticus liked literature so much. Literature was distant enough to be safe and enjoyable. "Taught high school. Seen plenty of bird chests." His grin was lopsided, indicating he was kidding.
"Helps? Having Destiny here?" Atticus assumed it did. "Always wondered how life would be different with siblings," he admitted. He assumed life would have turned out very differently indeed. "Going to ask a question that might sit wrong. Humor me? Since there are two of you, why not pool resources and do something different?" Seemed logical to Atticus. Probably not very thought out, because Atticus only thought deeply when he had a spine cracked in front of him. Didn't think Billy had a drug addiction or anything to necessitate the quick income that Atticus assumed came with sex work.
As for the spread, it was plentiful, but lobster really didn't yield that much meat. And, as Atticus' physique indicated, he had a very healthy appetite.
He hummed at the assertion that the tattoo proverb seemed fitting. He was still thinking about it when Billy slid off the counter, and Atticus pointed at the cupboard that held glasses that were old and hazy with age. Atticus hadn't refurnished or purchased anything new in the Carriage House, and the entire place had the vibe of belonging to an older generation.
He chuckled at the concept of setting the table, but he nodded toward the drawer, where there were a few mismatched utensils to accompany the mismatched stoneware plates. "Please. Make sure the fork's in the right place. Very important," he teased, and he hoisted the serving plate with the lobster and carried it out to the coffee table. Jim Morrison was singing about people being strange, which Atticus couldn't argue with. He sang along quietly, his voice low, and he made two trips to the kitchen for the remainder of the bowls and trays. If he felt badly about serving lobster on a coffee table, or about using couches and carpets for seating, it didn't show. Truthfully, he didn't think to be ashamed, and he plunked himself down on the floor with only a passing groan to indicate his age.