12-26-2018, 09:52 PM
It takes only a moment of inattention and one person moving just a little too fast for this early in the morning.
crash.
The ceramic bowl that was previously tucked into the crook of his elbow is now in a half-dozen pieces on the ground. The sound of it shattering was mostly swallowed by the bustling crowd, and only a few attentive patrons of the market even bother to step around it. Cursing his luck under his breath, the dark haired man bends to scoop up the shards, grateful that the thick pottery meant that there weren’t many pieces. The pot-assassin had ducked into another aisle before Ivar could confront him, and he puts the broken pieces irritably (but carefully) into the bag he carries in his opposite hand. The intended occupants of the bowl are in that bag, after all, and he has no intention of damaging them as well. He’ll just make do with something he already has at home.
Overhead, the warm sun is just beginning to break through the overcast morning sky, but Ivar keeps the hood of his dark sweatshirt up and is grateful the previously-unnecessary sunglasses are there to conceal his face. He wants to get in and out of the Market without running into anyone he knows. This is difficult – he nearly makes accidental eye contact with the girl at the cold press coffee stand and speed-walks past the questioning gaze of the woman selling windchimes who he’d most certainly not called back.
He should really find another Farmer’s Market, one with less familiar faces, but his favorite horticulturist only attends this one, and only on Saturdays (the most crowded day of the week). Plus it’s the closest one to his downtown apartment, and such a close walk. That’s usually one of his selling points with the ladies, after all, but he’s at least 65% sure that the blonde he’d left in bed this morning would probably still be there when he returned, so inviting back someone else would surely be a disaster.
Instead he’d slipped out with a note (help yourself to anything in the fridge; my dealer and girlfriend are stopping by around 9am – a tested and true way to make sure they leave) but his watch reads 8:16 am and he realizes he has half an hour to kill. There’s a smiling man behind the breakfast burrito truck today (Ivar thanks his lucky stars that it isn’t Lucille) and he orders his usual – double meat, double cheese, no tomatoes – and finds an empty table to eat, taking a few bites as he wanders. He places his bag of treasures carefully on the seat beside him and removes his sunglasses. There was a speck of cheese on them somehow (he was always a messy eater) and just as he rubs it away, he glances up to make eye contact with someone.
A very pretty someone, that is. A very pretty someone that he’d been absolutely certain that he wouldn’t ever see again.
@[Wishbone]
crash.
The ceramic bowl that was previously tucked into the crook of his elbow is now in a half-dozen pieces on the ground. The sound of it shattering was mostly swallowed by the bustling crowd, and only a few attentive patrons of the market even bother to step around it. Cursing his luck under his breath, the dark haired man bends to scoop up the shards, grateful that the thick pottery meant that there weren’t many pieces. The pot-assassin had ducked into another aisle before Ivar could confront him, and he puts the broken pieces irritably (but carefully) into the bag he carries in his opposite hand. The intended occupants of the bowl are in that bag, after all, and he has no intention of damaging them as well. He’ll just make do with something he already has at home.
Overhead, the warm sun is just beginning to break through the overcast morning sky, but Ivar keeps the hood of his dark sweatshirt up and is grateful the previously-unnecessary sunglasses are there to conceal his face. He wants to get in and out of the Market without running into anyone he knows. This is difficult – he nearly makes accidental eye contact with the girl at the cold press coffee stand and speed-walks past the questioning gaze of the woman selling windchimes who he’d most certainly not called back.
He should really find another Farmer’s Market, one with less familiar faces, but his favorite horticulturist only attends this one, and only on Saturdays (the most crowded day of the week). Plus it’s the closest one to his downtown apartment, and such a close walk. That’s usually one of his selling points with the ladies, after all, but he’s at least 65% sure that the blonde he’d left in bed this morning would probably still be there when he returned, so inviting back someone else would surely be a disaster.
Instead he’d slipped out with a note (help yourself to anything in the fridge; my dealer and girlfriend are stopping by around 9am – a tested and true way to make sure they leave) but his watch reads 8:16 am and he realizes he has half an hour to kill. There’s a smiling man behind the breakfast burrito truck today (Ivar thanks his lucky stars that it isn’t Lucille) and he orders his usual – double meat, double cheese, no tomatoes – and finds an empty table to eat, taking a few bites as he wanders. He places his bag of treasures carefully on the seat beside him and removes his sunglasses. There was a speck of cheese on them somehow (he was always a messy eater) and just as he rubs it away, he glances up to make eye contact with someone.
A very pretty someone, that is. A very pretty someone that he’d been absolutely certain that he wouldn’t ever see again.
@[Wishbone]