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Coffee: Sam & Neil
Who: Sam and Neil
What: Coffee & catching up
Where: Sambalatte, Ocean's Eleven
When: Recentish
Warnings/Rating: Sam's language
Sam left work a half hour before noon, even though the free monorail between Bellagio and Monte Carlo meant she could get over to the coffee place in five minutes. But she didn't want to stress herself out with needing to rush, and that was her mantra lately, yeah? Don't stress out. It didn't always work, but she was ok that morning. Work was busy, because Vegas was always busy in Spring, but it wasn't like nuts or anything; the number of people who wanted to come into the gallery and actually learn shit wasn't substantial. Mostly, people wanted to get away from the sun, yeah? Assignations. Assignations were big too, especially for husbands, because no tourist wife in flip flops would go looking for her missing spouse in the presence of Klimt and Chagall, because none of these men even knew who the fuck Klimt and Chagall were. Yeah, no, so shit wasn't too busy. She'd spent most of the morning watching a guy try to hit on a girl half his age, and he'd been so fucking bad at it.
Dressed for work, she took her time getting to the monorail, and then she took her time walking from the monorail to Sambalatte, a clove between her fingers which she stubbed out beneath a tall heel before pulling open the shop's heavy door.
Inside, the coffee shop was busy, and she took a seat at one of the small bistro tables. They roasted their own coffee onsite, and the shop was cool and rich smelling, voices white noise in the background, blending like paints on a palette. She ordered a flat white, and she pulled a small notebook and pencil from her purse. Head down, blonde against her cheeks, she filled the minutes with lead scratching on paper and the image of the man from the morning, old and a lecher's grin, leaning against the wall and smiling at a girl with cotton candy lipgloss.
What: Coffee & catching up
Where: Sambalatte, Ocean's Eleven
When: Recentish
Warnings/Rating: Sam's language
Sam left work a half hour before noon, even though the free monorail between Bellagio and Monte Carlo meant she could get over to the coffee place in five minutes. But she didn't want to stress herself out with needing to rush, and that was her mantra lately, yeah? Don't stress out. It didn't always work, but she was ok that morning. Work was busy, because Vegas was always busy in Spring, but it wasn't like nuts or anything; the number of people who wanted to come into the gallery and actually learn shit wasn't substantial. Mostly, people wanted to get away from the sun, yeah? Assignations. Assignations were big too, especially for husbands, because no tourist wife in flip flops would go looking for her missing spouse in the presence of Klimt and Chagall, because none of these men even knew who the fuck Klimt and Chagall were. Yeah, no, so shit wasn't too busy. She'd spent most of the morning watching a guy try to hit on a girl half his age, and he'd been so fucking bad at it.
Dressed for work, she took her time getting to the monorail, and then she took her time walking from the monorail to Sambalatte, a clove between her fingers which she stubbed out beneath a tall heel before pulling open the shop's heavy door.
Inside, the coffee shop was busy, and she took a seat at one of the small bistro tables. They roasted their own coffee onsite, and the shop was cool and rich smelling, voices white noise in the background, blending like paints on a palette. She ordered a flat white, and she pulled a small notebook and pencil from her purse. Head down, blonde against her cheeks, she filled the minutes with lead scratching on paper and the image of the man from the morning, old and a lecher's grin, leaning against the wall and smiling at a girl with cotton candy lipgloss.