[Kora] The evening is warm, and cloudy. In the walkable, rather upscale Lakeview, Taylor Books is open late. The independent bookstore is one of the last of its kind. The place is large, two stories, with a grand staircase between the two floors and the feel of a college library, sprawling and intimate, all at once. There are nooks and there are crannies. There are armchairs hidden away behind a screen of bargain chapbooks. There is an entire section devoted to poetry of the Reformation, and a large U-shaped architecture section favored by U of Chicago students.
Downstairs, a coffee shop fills an airy front atrium and spills out onto a patio. The place is all warm colors, burnished and comfortable. And packed, tonight, with too many would-be poets. The coffee is excellent, roasted on the premises. They are famous for their Yemeni coffees and their "Elevensies" blend. The scent of the roasted beans permeates the whole of the store, mingling with the scent of paper, ink, old and new. Four minutes of mediocre poetry was enough to drive Kora outside. She's there now, tucking her lean frame into one of the iron chairs, the furled umbrella in the center to the table, a handful of books on the table and a tall glass of iced tea in hand.
[Imogen] Fate would have it that Imogen and Kora had shared space, somewhat, though the former had not entirely been unaware of the latter.
She had caught sight of blonde hair, dark clothing, a familiar lithe frame as it began to descend the stairs from the second floor bookstore to the first floor coffee shop, some seven or eight minutes ago. Imogen had, for reasons of her own, not called out or spoken up. The distance had been enough that Kora's rage had been muted - and Imogen's breeding had been silenced; it had only been chance that the redhead had seen the blonde and that the blonde had not seen the redhead.
And Imogen had let chance lie and had not interfered with it. She remained among the books, only briefly disturbed by a human when they both happen to cross each other at the shelves.
Seven minutes later: three minutes after Kora had abandoned the poetry reading. Imogen had not even bothered, her head turned away studiously as she had ordered her drink, paid for her book.
She exits the coffee shop onto the patio, carrying with her a plate balanced with a metal tea pot and mug, a book in her other hand. She's dressed in a white suit, only a few scant days before labour day, a pale camisole of blue, her white blazer hiding her gun which she carries even now.
Despite the earlier decision, she does not hesitate to walk toward Kora and her table on the patio.
"Find anythin' good," she asks, when they are close enough for decent conversation.
[Kora] "Seamus Heaney's translation of Beowulf," Kora returns, glancing up with the hint of a curving smile winging across her expressive mouth, this lilting half-smile by way of greeting. Imogen's hands are full, so Kora shifts her position, sliding a tucked leg out from under her body to push another of the iron chairs out from the table for the kinswoman as she approaches.
By way of further explanation, the Skald slides the largest of the books from the bottom of the pile. The cover is black, with an etching of some antique helmet on the front. The paper, thick and creamy, has that rich scent that means books to a bibliophile. "A few other things, too." Lifting her chin toward Imogen's selection, she continues, " - the poetry drove you outside, did it? I hope that chick going on about being the sunshine and the mountaintops and the sublime and hope flying on wings of light wasn't still up when you were awaiting your tea."
[Imogen] "Ta," as Kora pushes one of the iron chairs back, putting down her plate and adjusting the chair before taking a seat, setting her book down face first.
Her gaze flicks toward the book, a familiar sight to her, though not one which she owns personally. Her mouth twists faintly. "How very -" a distinct pause. They are not alone on the patio, though no one is likely to be listening. Still, "Norse of you," she gives weight to the word creating a double entendre.
"No," she says mildly. "It was some other woman talking euphemistically about her womb," her mouth twists. "At least that's what I gathered."
[Kora] Kora barks out a laugh at Imogen's double entendre. It is just one brief, audible crack of her voice, before she pulls back, somehow. Still, the idea of laughter lingers in her body, in the shape of her shoulders, in the twist of her mouth, in the gleam of her dark eyes.
"Cheers," she returns then, reaching over her pile of books to lift her iced tea in the lingering suggestion of a toast. The laughter is like a bright filament in the skein of her voice. Sure, but not sardonic - just sure. "I think you got the worse end of the deal then, doc. I'll take the hope's sunlit wings over the mountains of my despair sort of chick anyday over someone waxing poetic about her insides. Unless she decided to go on about the spleen, or something interesting."
[Imogen] Imogen's breath exhales sharply. "I imagine the only time a poet would wax lyrical about a spleen would be if they'd had it removed. Then it will be all about th'woe o' spleen-loss 'nd perhaps a few lines about Howell-Jolly bodies or neutrophilia or some such."
A pause, her eyebrow arching significantly before she reaches over to pick up her tea pot - having not quite responded to the toast, and pours herself a cup of black tea.
"Hardly scintillating listening in any case, hm?"
[Kora] "You've already gone over my head, with the Jolly-bodies and neutrons, doc. Remember," there's a neat, faint little shrug, Kora's shoulders rises and fall in easy succession. The iced tea is slick in her hand, and rings out with a little ping of glass against metal as she returns it to the table. The edge of Kora's mouth hooks upward, that old look, self-aware without being self-mocking. " - college dropout here. I made it two weeks before I skipped town."
Then, she drops a glance back over her shoulder, through the windows, past the poetry crowd, toward the store, with its two-levels and its used treasures and its books and nooks and crannies. The iron railing on the grand staircase, and the old fashioned cash-registers at the front desk. "This place is pretty amazing, though. I'm pretty sure I could spend solid days just wandering about. What is it you picked up?"
[Imogen] Imogen smirks faintly - "S'not particularly the details tha' matter, I think," she says, pouring milk into her cup. "Just tha' these things can relate to havin' lost a spleen."
In answer to the question, she turns the book over, pushing it Kora's way.
The book does not actually matter - in the end, the whole night does not matter, not in the grand scheme of things. The course of the war, the betterment of the Nation, none of that happens tonight. Their conversation is neither deep nor revealing. Perhaps Imogen explains Howell-Jolly body in layman's terms. Perhaps they discuss her book, whatever it is.
Regardless, she does not stay long - a phone call draws her away.
Just 15, 20 minutes of the in between.
Downstairs, a coffee shop fills an airy front atrium and spills out onto a patio. The place is all warm colors, burnished and comfortable. And packed, tonight, with too many would-be poets. The coffee is excellent, roasted on the premises. They are famous for their Yemeni coffees and their "Elevensies" blend. The scent of the roasted beans permeates the whole of the store, mingling with the scent of paper, ink, old and new. Four minutes of mediocre poetry was enough to drive Kora outside. She's there now, tucking her lean frame into one of the iron chairs, the furled umbrella in the center to the table, a handful of books on the table and a tall glass of iced tea in hand.
[Imogen] Fate would have it that Imogen and Kora had shared space, somewhat, though the former had not entirely been unaware of the latter.
She had caught sight of blonde hair, dark clothing, a familiar lithe frame as it began to descend the stairs from the second floor bookstore to the first floor coffee shop, some seven or eight minutes ago. Imogen had, for reasons of her own, not called out or spoken up. The distance had been enough that Kora's rage had been muted - and Imogen's breeding had been silenced; it had only been chance that the redhead had seen the blonde and that the blonde had not seen the redhead.
And Imogen had let chance lie and had not interfered with it. She remained among the books, only briefly disturbed by a human when they both happen to cross each other at the shelves.
Seven minutes later: three minutes after Kora had abandoned the poetry reading. Imogen had not even bothered, her head turned away studiously as she had ordered her drink, paid for her book.
She exits the coffee shop onto the patio, carrying with her a plate balanced with a metal tea pot and mug, a book in her other hand. She's dressed in a white suit, only a few scant days before labour day, a pale camisole of blue, her white blazer hiding her gun which she carries even now.
Despite the earlier decision, she does not hesitate to walk toward Kora and her table on the patio.
"Find anythin' good," she asks, when they are close enough for decent conversation.
[Kora] "Seamus Heaney's translation of Beowulf," Kora returns, glancing up with the hint of a curving smile winging across her expressive mouth, this lilting half-smile by way of greeting. Imogen's hands are full, so Kora shifts her position, sliding a tucked leg out from under her body to push another of the iron chairs out from the table for the kinswoman as she approaches.
By way of further explanation, the Skald slides the largest of the books from the bottom of the pile. The cover is black, with an etching of some antique helmet on the front. The paper, thick and creamy, has that rich scent that means books to a bibliophile. "A few other things, too." Lifting her chin toward Imogen's selection, she continues, " - the poetry drove you outside, did it? I hope that chick going on about being the sunshine and the mountaintops and the sublime and hope flying on wings of light wasn't still up when you were awaiting your tea."
[Imogen] "Ta," as Kora pushes one of the iron chairs back, putting down her plate and adjusting the chair before taking a seat, setting her book down face first.
Her gaze flicks toward the book, a familiar sight to her, though not one which she owns personally. Her mouth twists faintly. "How very -" a distinct pause. They are not alone on the patio, though no one is likely to be listening. Still, "Norse of you," she gives weight to the word creating a double entendre.
"No," she says mildly. "It was some other woman talking euphemistically about her womb," her mouth twists. "At least that's what I gathered."
[Kora] Kora barks out a laugh at Imogen's double entendre. It is just one brief, audible crack of her voice, before she pulls back, somehow. Still, the idea of laughter lingers in her body, in the shape of her shoulders, in the twist of her mouth, in the gleam of her dark eyes.
"Cheers," she returns then, reaching over her pile of books to lift her iced tea in the lingering suggestion of a toast. The laughter is like a bright filament in the skein of her voice. Sure, but not sardonic - just sure. "I think you got the worse end of the deal then, doc. I'll take the hope's sunlit wings over the mountains of my despair sort of chick anyday over someone waxing poetic about her insides. Unless she decided to go on about the spleen, or something interesting."
[Imogen] Imogen's breath exhales sharply. "I imagine the only time a poet would wax lyrical about a spleen would be if they'd had it removed. Then it will be all about th'woe o' spleen-loss 'nd perhaps a few lines about Howell-Jolly bodies or neutrophilia or some such."
A pause, her eyebrow arching significantly before she reaches over to pick up her tea pot - having not quite responded to the toast, and pours herself a cup of black tea.
"Hardly scintillating listening in any case, hm?"
[Kora] "You've already gone over my head, with the Jolly-bodies and neutrons, doc. Remember," there's a neat, faint little shrug, Kora's shoulders rises and fall in easy succession. The iced tea is slick in her hand, and rings out with a little ping of glass against metal as she returns it to the table. The edge of Kora's mouth hooks upward, that old look, self-aware without being self-mocking. " - college dropout here. I made it two weeks before I skipped town."
Then, she drops a glance back over her shoulder, through the windows, past the poetry crowd, toward the store, with its two-levels and its used treasures and its books and nooks and crannies. The iron railing on the grand staircase, and the old fashioned cash-registers at the front desk. "This place is pretty amazing, though. I'm pretty sure I could spend solid days just wandering about. What is it you picked up?"
[Imogen] Imogen smirks faintly - "S'not particularly the details tha' matter, I think," she says, pouring milk into her cup. "Just tha' these things can relate to havin' lost a spleen."
In answer to the question, she turns the book over, pushing it Kora's way.
The book does not actually matter - in the end, the whole night does not matter, not in the grand scheme of things. The course of the war, the betterment of the Nation, none of that happens tonight. Their conversation is neither deep nor revealing. Perhaps Imogen explains Howell-Jolly body in layman's terms. Perhaps they discuss her book, whatever it is.
Regardless, she does not stay long - a phone call draws her away.
Just 15, 20 minutes of the in between.
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