Another day, another dollar - or another ten or twelve books thoroughly researched and discarded as not having what she's looking for, anyway. It is a three-swim day, in fact; every time Gillian gets too frustrated, she stops what she does, and goes for a swim. She's been once - before classes, lectures, research; again after lunch, and now, before dinner. Freshly showered, her hair forms messy damp ringlets curling together and threatening to turn themselves into knots.
     In every other way, she is well-attended - a white summery dress with spaghetti straps is worn with a loose green letterman jacket from her old prep school. It was Pres' jacket, until he outgrew it; now it's only two or three sizes too big for her. She carries a brown leather bag by its strap, sandals clicking as she makes her way into the local pub for a quick dinner.
     Gillyflower, you're a little early for spring...

     The Fir Tree Pub has sat on this corner of Iffley and Bullington since its very beginning in '66 -- 1866, rather. It serves the usual suspects: Guinness, Olde Trip, the Old Speckled Hen. And it's full from post tea onward past morning with your fellow students. Literature students blend with history with language with art and science. It's become a regular salon, in its fashion.
     Early evening though it may be, it's already pushing capacity. Harold is there, and Quincy Bloom, and Jenny and James -- twin English majors joined at the hips but at odds over Byron and Milton -- the Reprobate and the Prude.
     ...The debates go on for hours, which is unfortunate as no one really cares but them...
     Every single table is taken and likewise every booth. The coveted Poet's Corner is being domineered by a lone sitter -- a foreigner at that! -- which is earning the ire of the Regulars to be sure. In that booth, the opened face of a book -- The Gift by Hafiz -- may be seen, and the stretched out leg of the loitering foreigner, dressed very finely in black suit trousers.
     Balthazar Davies turns the page of the book, medieval Persian (in Farsi, no less) running across the tongue of his brain in delight. A bronze eyebrow lifts over the horizon of the lifted book, cinnamon colored eyes giving a quick survey for her arrival. His tall form is stretched out in the circular shaped booth, really a table best suited for five-to-seven. He monopolizes it like a grand vizier. And ...why not?
     He did give you a hint. It read: A truce to your volumes, your studies, give o'er: for books cannot teach you love's marvelous lore.
     Hafiz.

     The Regulars get a cheerful wave, her glasses sitting clumsily on the tip of her nose as she sweeps the room wit a critical eye. Gillian smiles - and shakes her head, marching over to the Poet's Corner and dropping her books upon the table's surface. "I should have known. You've got chutzpah, you know that? Enough of it for any three ordinary guys. Half the people here right now want to stab you. In the face."
     She is amused rather than angry, and it shows in her voice, and in her eyes, which dance with a certain mischief as she takes a seat on the very edge of the booth's cushioning, crossing one ankle over the other delicately. She rests her wrists on the edge of the table. "I'd ask how you've been, but I don't want to encourage you."

     The book lowers, revealing the casual grin. "Territorial," Balthazar muses, amusement crowding the features of his face and setting alight something in his eyes. "And at their age."
     As you sit, he started to rise, but you beat him to it. He tucks the book away, his page saved by the gentle downward dog of the page edge. Hafiz, forgive him.
     Without sending an order in, without a waitress stopping by to take an order, two drinks appear. One, the Lady 52. Two, an Adam and Eve -- or as some refer to it, a Snakebite.
     Balthazar rests his arms upon the table, slowly sliding your preferred concoction your way. Does he forget anything? His hair is a bit less chaotic today, still no less red-bronze, bit of a deeper strawberry-red than your own. The black jacket is paired with layers of blue beneath it: vest, cardigan and shirt all various shades, with the one closest to his person being the darkest, like midnight. The suit itself is in fact no black at all but the deepest sort of midnight blue.
     It is a sky against which his smile becomes a comet...
     "What sort of evening would it be without at least one hateful glance. You're not doing something right if everyone adores you. You look great, someone wants the gopher ... is it a gopher? ... to see his shadow. No... groundchuck. No..." Balthazar peers at you. "Groundhog," he slowly states, after a great deal of rumination. "Or are you getting practice in for Hawaii?"

     She notices, these little touches, and she's flattered. Her cheeks go the tiniest bit pink, and her smile is open and spontaneous as her glance flicks from you to the drink. "Scholars are some of the most territorial people out there, actually," Gillian tells you lightly. "Spend any time around me and you'll find that out."
     The drink is tugged towards her, and she dips her head to sip through the mixing straw, lips puckered around it. She watches you, sidelong, never quite directly. "Practice for Hawaii? What do you mean? - Oh, my hair? No, I swim every day." She laughs, straightening up from her drink. "It's good stress relief, and otherwise I'd run the risk of getting out of shape. I tried running, but ... just not for me. Or did you mean something else?"

     "That and the sandals and the dress," does he miss anything, seriously? Balthazar sits back, his head tilting as he watches you sip at the drink and give him the sidelong look. Unlike you, his gaze is always direct. There is no feint, no deflection or redirection. He gives his glass an idle spin as he mouth forms another easy grin. He lifts it and sips it.
     "Have you laid claim to a wing of the library, then," Balthazar wonders, "... or a particular cafe. Is the History department the Montagues to the Economic's Capulets? It sounds sort of sexy and intriguing, scholars battling it out. That must mean," Balthazar continues with a pointed look and a wandering sort of smile, "...that I'm Mercutio."
     He could fancy that. He chuckles as he takes a swallow of the snakebite. He leans in again, drink cradled in hands that rest upon the table, not so far from your own. "Have you been cliff-diving at all on your seafaring adventures?"

     "I felt like wearing something pretty!" Gillian crinkles up her nose at you, picking up her drink. "Anyway, this isn't what I'd wear in Oahu. Martha's Vineyard, yes, but not Hawaii."
     She taps the side of her glass, then sets it down, settling back with her hands folding in her lap as she smiles at you. "Mercutio died, though. If you're going to aspire to be someone - you should aspire to be someone who got what he wanted. No, I've never gone cliff-diving. It takes years of practice, and anyway, I don't like heights. I'm picky about my adventures, mister lead singer in a band."

     "But he had fantastic lines," comes the counter, with a laugh. "The play's a bit of a bore without him, don't you think? He would be the sort who'd enter a Regulars sort of bar and take the best seat for himself and the girl he fancies, She Who Quizzes. I think that would be your indian name. She Who Quizzes. I wonder how one would say that in Mohican. Too bad we missed the last one. Now we'll never know."
     Twinkle, twinkle, the humor in his eyes. You sit half a table away now that you're sitting back, but Balthazar still sits forward. "Speaking of, we have a show this week. I want you to come. We're over-running a bar. We're not on the schedule. We're just going to... start playing and see what happens. Be my special guest, Miss West?"
     It is an official asking out for an official, if guerilla, event. It's a sort of cliff-diving. In its way. Just to circle back around to the seemingly random inquiry.

     Gillian smiles, then shakes her head slightly. "You're a rogue," she tells you, voice going a little quieter. She doesn't say it like it's a bad thing. "I think the Mohicans would have scalped me, though. And I rather like my scalp where it is."
     She holds her drink between both hands, leaning forward a little bit again. She studies your face. "I think I'd like that. But I should ask if it'd be rude of me to bring a guest? It's not anything bad," she adds swiftly, hurriedly, "but a friend of mine - well, he's my brother's friend, but we all like him, he's here, staying in London, and I was hoping to introduce you. I have an ulterior motive, of course." She smiles, and there's a twinkle to her own eyes. "Several, in fact..."

     "I'm going to be rather disappointed if you're trying to set me up on a blind date, Miss West," Balthazar smiles in a slant. "It's no problem, of course, bring him. He's not a fiance or anything is he? I do study fencing, so if I have to throw down, I'm prepared. So what's the motive, or am I not to ask and instead be surprised? You'll tell me if this is a test, won't you? I don't think we agreed upon pop quizzes."
     More seriously, he grins -- if a grin is a thing that could be said to be serious. Perhaps the better word is genuine. "Bring him along. It's not rude. It's a public performance. It would be more rude not to participate. You do have me curious, however. You know how we electricians can be when we're curious."
     The study is returned -- in fact, it never stops. His wrist still resting on the tabletop, he lifts his right hand. It is an invitation, subtle and not. "I expect to lead the coup d'etat around nine on Friday. Maybe we should do dinner on Thursday night. Just in case the revolution doesn't end well." Cinnamon brown eyes sparkle in a wink.

     "Not a blind date, no," Gillian retorts, "for one thing, I actually like Loki too much to inflict an itinerant electrician such as yourself. Though at least you're not a scruffy itinerant electrician," she concedes. "There's nothing worse than one of those."
     She takes another sip of her drink, scooting in a little further, as if finally committing herself to accepting a seat at your table. "Actually, he's a musician. He's been looking for a way into the local scene, I think, but he's been meeting all sorts of nutcases, it sounds like. So naturally," she smiles mischievously, "I thought of you. Sure, I guess I could do dinner on Thursday. Maybe. What should I wear to the revolution? Something which won't show blood?"

     "I see," he chuckles. "I am itinerant but useful. Does that make me a Purposeful Vagabond? Technically, that's an oxymoron. I'd be happy to talk to him. You never know. I'm adding bits to my band all the time. I'm looking for two violinists and a cellist and a permanent drummer. Charlie's excellent, I wish I could keep him, but Mrs. Parker's having none of that. He's unable to tour, which is becoming more of an issue. Sorry, I think I was just talking shop. We'll leave that for Friday."
     His finger taps the top of your hand to the syllables of Friday. "I am flattered you thought of me. And did you just say Yes to dinner or was that a Maybe?" Impish the grin that follows. "And ... I have no doubt but that you will dress with panache and class. Wear whatever inspires you." You could wear a paper sack and it would inspire me. "I have complete faith in your ability to accessorize, Madame Cinquante-Deux."

     She laughs, head tipping back and at a slight angle that sends her earrings jangling. "He's a drummer, as it happens. He's a nice guy - he and Pres always got along really well, and he's agreed to go check on Pres for me, so I owe him one, anyway. If it works out with you guys, I'll feel I've repaid him a little." Gillian shrugs, picking up her drink for another small sip. "Band stuff. It has cooties. Just like boys. Bleah." And she sticks out her tongue at you.
     Your hand touches hers, and she glances at it, smiling with cheeks again going a trifle pink. "It was a yes but also an I make no promises as to what I'll look like and with the caveat that I can't be out too late or I'll turn into a pumpkin. I've got a lecture at eight on Saturday. I did warn you, I don't tend to be out at all hours."

     "It'll be a short set," Balthazar quietly assures. "We should be done by ten, ten-thirty at the latest. Will that be time enough, Cinderella? And... yes...you did warn me," he chuckles. You do that, but it does not dissuade.
     "As for Thursday, I will meet you at your place. We'll do something Oxfordish."
     He pauses for a moment, then peers at you. "By the way... what is a cootie?" His lilting accent plays upon an unfamiliar word. His mouth pulls wide and warmly. "It sounds vaguely communicable."

     Her head falls back, and she laughs until she whoops, eyes watering behind her glasses. It takes a little while until she gets her senses under control; the drink is safe, somehow, and she pulls off her glasses to wipe at the tears. "Cooties... I guess you don't do that over here," Gillian says finally. "Cooties are ... well, they're technically a slang term for lice, but that's not how kids mean them. When you're young, it's what boys or girls have - whichever you aren't, you see? So 'Eeeew, you like Bobby? Bobby has cooties.'"
     She wipes her eye with her palm, laughing a bit breathlessly, glasses dangling from her other hand. "Oxfordish. Punting a scull on the river? I should warn you, I might knock you in."

     He laughs along with you and leans in: "Does that mean that you like me, Gillian?" Though his tone is teasing, his look is rather more genuine than that. "Punting a scull. You make the sandwiches an I'll row. And if you knock me in, then we'll both swim. Sounds like a lovely way to pass the afternoon if you ask me."

Posted by rowan at February 17, 2009 10:15 PM