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Show Woodworth/189 of smoke. "Do you mind if I join you?" This to Rachael, his face is dead-pan. He uses no gestures. "I mind if you join me," Rachael says. "But if you want to join her, ask her." "Do you?" he asks. He smiles down at her. Carefully coiffed, wire rimmed glasses. A wrinkle-less tan suit. "Find yourself a chair," she instructs him, and he turns to the table behind him. "This seat taken?" It is, and he wanders off, stopping at tables. "Is anyone using this chair? Can I borrow this?" "What's going on?" Marty asks. "I shouldn't have come, I guess. It's just that this place gives me the creeps. Everyone is so careful. So groomed. It reminds me of a stable of Lippizaner horses, where the god damned horses can't even get shit on their shoes. It's so hypocritical. "Do you want to go some place else?" "Do you?" Marty sees the tan suit coming back towards them. He is dragging a chair. "Not really," she admits. "Unless it's going to threaten our friendship." Rachael sees the tan suit returning, too. "There aren't any threats that I can'think of that spend afternoons at the beauty parlor. I'm going to walk around." "Don't leave without me," Marty calls after her. "Your friend coming back?" he asks, pointing to the empty chair. "Later on. She might," Marty says. He sits in Rachael's chair, leaving the other one perched expectantly, uselessly, by theirs tafel'e. |
