Post by Jonathan Whiteman on May 3, 2009 14:08:53 GMT -5
The bell dangling freely from the door handle of the diner jingled gleefully as Jon stepped inside. Stupid dance practice, he grumbled in his head, dodging quickly the "Seat Yourself" sign that had been placed precariously just inside the doorframe. No... wait. It makes her happy, he reminded himself, the damp floor beneath his feet squeaking sharply beneath his heels. And if she's happy, I'm happy. The bar stool felt almost icy as he sat, hooking his heels on the horizontal metal bar beneath him with a relapse of guilt that he'd been so selfish.
Today was Thursday, and the early spring sun was floating softly through the long, tall windows that ran the width of the front of the diner. So many smells- the leather of jackets and wallets, the wax of the crayons of the few kids that sat in a booth a ways off, the saltiness of the grease with which the cooks were cooking that made Jon's stomach growl angrily once again- were grabbing at his attention, but there was only one, besides the food that his stomach was now demanding, that he really wanted. And that smell was off at dance practice this early afternoon, as her parents had told him after he'd shown up at her house.
The waitress, preoccupied with- oh, it looked like there were other people at the bar; Jon hadn't even noticed that he'd sat right beside a guy that looked to be nearly his own age- the orders of the other customers, absentmindedly tapped a glass of ice water before him before stepping off to the guy a few stools to the right to clarify something about his order. Jon gave a sniff, rubbing the back of his hand vaguely against his nose with an apathetic expression, then reached for the sweating glass, sipping quietly against the thin, crushed ice. The sound of it (he'd felt the water's entire trip) hitting his stomach sent his gut roaring again, and the light touch of a smile spread across his expression, amused at how loud it was. Gotta love a werewolf appetite, he mentally chuckled.
The stool, however, was... a tad less than amusing. More specifically, it was hard. Uncomfortable. And, as Jon quickly learned when he tried to readjust himself on it and ended up sliding to his left, spilling the water all over the guy who looked to roughly be his age... it was also freshly waxed and partially damp on top of that from a recent wipe of a wet rag, giving it the friction of greased lightning.
Though he'd never been one much for manners or embarrassment, his face flushed all shades of scarlet as he caught himself against his neighbor's stool. "Ohhh crap," he awkwardly jumbled, grabbing for his napkin but realizing the waitress hadn't sat one for him yet, "I am so sorry, man."
Today was Thursday, and the early spring sun was floating softly through the long, tall windows that ran the width of the front of the diner. So many smells- the leather of jackets and wallets, the wax of the crayons of the few kids that sat in a booth a ways off, the saltiness of the grease with which the cooks were cooking that made Jon's stomach growl angrily once again- were grabbing at his attention, but there was only one, besides the food that his stomach was now demanding, that he really wanted. And that smell was off at dance practice this early afternoon, as her parents had told him after he'd shown up at her house.
The waitress, preoccupied with- oh, it looked like there were other people at the bar; Jon hadn't even noticed that he'd sat right beside a guy that looked to be nearly his own age- the orders of the other customers, absentmindedly tapped a glass of ice water before him before stepping off to the guy a few stools to the right to clarify something about his order. Jon gave a sniff, rubbing the back of his hand vaguely against his nose with an apathetic expression, then reached for the sweating glass, sipping quietly against the thin, crushed ice. The sound of it (he'd felt the water's entire trip) hitting his stomach sent his gut roaring again, and the light touch of a smile spread across his expression, amused at how loud it was. Gotta love a werewolf appetite, he mentally chuckled.
The stool, however, was... a tad less than amusing. More specifically, it was hard. Uncomfortable. And, as Jon quickly learned when he tried to readjust himself on it and ended up sliding to his left, spilling the water all over the guy who looked to roughly be his age... it was also freshly waxed and partially damp on top of that from a recent wipe of a wet rag, giving it the friction of greased lightning.
Though he'd never been one much for manners or embarrassment, his face flushed all shades of scarlet as he caught himself against his neighbor's stool. "Ohhh crap," he awkwardly jumbled, grabbing for his napkin but realizing the waitress hadn't sat one for him yet, "I am so sorry, man."
