Re: quicklog -- steph/dami: stephanie's loft.
[Damian did not struggle for purpose. He had, perhaps, once, as a child lost in Gotham, but those days were gone in the endless, shiftless whorl of time, as restless as grains of sand along the vast Rub' al Khali, skittering over crested dune into bland erg. It was a topography that could not be known, time, and that did not bother the man, not like it did Stephanie. He did not require a constant. He was one. Which was why he was better than Stephanie. He knew what his life was to be and he believed it. She was doubt, loneliness.—Still, one might argue if the man felt so strongly, he would not bother associating with such, and Damian wouldn't have much of an argument in return, other than he was curious, but wether that was all he was, was difficult to ascertain.
He showed up at her loft—an ugly, stripped building of brick, exposed ducts and lights without covers like it was edgy, with touches of 'hominess' in dainty cabinetry, &c.,—in black over black, (faux) leather, a t-shirt, jeans, and black shoes with white laces. He'd put a cigarette out at some point on the walk over, that much was clear from the lingering smell in his hair and on his skin, and his eyes were salt flats in expansive blue-green, nearly pupil-less. He took the elevator up, and came upon the very domestic scene of Stephanie drowning her emotions in alcohol, a cat nearby and a dog at her feet.] Your shirt's too big, [was how he greeted her, allowing himself to pass beneath the scour of high-ceiling'd lights. His skin was the color of pale sand, some darkness beneath his eyes. He unzipped his jacket, like he was fully entitled to make himself at home, and he approached the woman at the table.
He came near her, drew up nearly in front of her, but rather than address her otherwise, he leaned over to pet the cat. His fingers scratched behind black ears and he looked Stephanie over, before his eyes went from her glass, back.] Is this how we're blowing off steam?