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Costco on a Sunday is basically a battlefield
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Most Recent Posts
I'm sorry about not really replying much. I've been working crazy hours lately.
Yeah, I've got a chore list this week to. Got to get ready for the White Death Sunday night. And I envy your week off. I only have two days off next week end.
So, are you spring over the weekend or do you have towork?
Posted. I made it a little short so as not to bowl over interaction.
There had been a master mason among the architects, in the centuries past when the castle was first constructed. That long dead genius had known-whether by careful study or some instinct- that carving the stairs in a sloping method would funnel sound into the lower reaches of the great castle, and yet block any noise rising from the recesses. As a result, Darius could have screamed at the to of his voice and gone unheard, and yet was privy to every whisper of conversation from the two that approached him.
Not that there could be any doubt on the topic. No, the questions that the master had of this interview were far different, and not so readily answered by eavesdropping. Instead he had poised himself just to the right of the stairway opening, where what little of the chamber's natural air currents lingered in sullen eddies. It would, he'd surmised, give him cover from her abilities, and a chance to gauge her experience. If she sensed him coming, then they would be farther along then he would have dared hope. But if not, then the road before them would be ardous indeed. Particularly with that particular brand of crude stubbornness apparent in his new apprentice's voice.
At the introduction, Darius made his move. The clothes he wore we're not at all his preferred style- all assassins preferred formless clothes that made identification more difficult-, but for the occasion he had chosen a tight fighting waistcoat and trousers that fit snugly into soft rising boots. All in all, an ensemble designed to catch as little of the wind as possible when he stepped in front of her.
"Septa Vasnie, I must assume? And this is what I was expected was a prodigy?"
Not that there could be any doubt on the topic. No, the questions that the master had of this interview were far different, and not so readily answered by eavesdropping. Instead he had poised himself just to the right of the stairway opening, where what little of the chamber's natural air currents lingered in sullen eddies. It would, he'd surmised, give him cover from her abilities, and a chance to gauge her experience. If she sensed him coming, then they would be farther along then he would have dared hope. But if not, then the road before them would be ardous indeed. Particularly with that particular brand of crude stubbornness apparent in his new apprentice's voice.
At the introduction, Darius made his move. The clothes he wore we're not at all his preferred style- all assassins preferred formless clothes that made identification more difficult-, but for the occasion he had chosen a tight fighting waistcoat and trousers that fit snugly into soft rising boots. All in all, an ensemble designed to catch as little of the wind as possible when he stepped in front of her.
"Septa Vasnie, I must assume? And this is what I was expected was a prodigy?"
Work blehhhhhh
What if her wallet got stolen somewhere along the way? Or her credit cards didn't work anymore?
There was nothing he could say to make her open up. Women weren't Rhett's best subject, but he knew fear and stubbornness well enough to see it spades in the eyes that danced up briefly to meet his. Something was keeping her quiet, and the man had seen enough Hallmark movies and Dateline specials to grasp that it wasn't pleasant memories that was keeping her mouth shut. His pushing would only close her up more, maybe even make her leave, and that wasn't what he wanted.
Rhett called up his most charming, laid back smile. It was an expression everyone but his mother was fooled by, and he tossed in a hint of relieved embarrassment in his voice to-hopefully- settle the tension. "Well, my mama always did say that my nose was too pointy for my own good. And now it's landed my foot right in my mouth. Just ignore the crazy. We've got a special tonight for Fridays, catfish and potatoe wedges, served with coleslaw. We've also got our night owl menu on the board," he gestured to a chalk sign tacked to the far wall. It was mostly burger and fry combos, though pancakes and a few breakfast items graced the menu.
"As for a place to stay, there are a few hotels in town. Cheapest would be the Motel 6, most comfortable would be Maggie's B&B. Plent in between those two."
Rhett called up his most charming, laid back smile. It was an expression everyone but his mother was fooled by, and he tossed in a hint of relieved embarrassment in his voice to-hopefully- settle the tension. "Well, my mama always did say that my nose was too pointy for my own good. And now it's landed my foot right in my mouth. Just ignore the crazy. We've got a special tonight for Fridays, catfish and potatoe wedges, served with coleslaw. We've also got our night owl menu on the board," he gestured to a chalk sign tacked to the far wall. It was mostly burger and fry combos, though pancakes and a few breakfast items graced the menu.
"As for a place to stay, there are a few hotels in town. Cheapest would be the Motel 6, most comfortable would be Maggie's B&B. Plent in between those two."
When he was fifteen, Rhett's father had caught making out with Leslie Lyles, the prettiest girl in his grade. The older man hadn't interrupted them, had even spent the rest of that evening pretending to have seen nothing, but later that night the man had drug them both out onto the porch swing to sit in the muggy early evening air.
The porch swing had creaked as they'd rocked silently, companionably. His father was nursing a beer slowly, savouring the amber liquid without letting it go to his head, and Rhett was content with a giant glass of Coke. He'd been chasing the ice cubes around with a straw, listening to them clink against the glass, when his father had finally spoken.
"So...I guess there's no point in askin' if you're lookin' at girls yet?"
Rhett knew his face must almost glow in the dark. "Dad, I--"
"Son, your mother and I were eighteen when we had Clyde. I know all about what drives men and women, 'specially when you finally start seein' one another. Now, I ain't got a problem with you kissing and holdin' hands. Not my place anyhow, and I know tellin' you to stop'll only make it worse. But I do think you're old enough now that we gotta talk about how you treat a woman.
His veins had gone ice cold. "Oh God, Dad, I don't need the Talk--"
But Sawyer Connors was already shaking his head. "Your mama will handle that. This is more serious. Now, I ain't gonna sit here and tell you that women are weak are helpless. Your mother and Tallullah would kill me six ways from Sunday. But I am going to tell you this, and you best remember it all your life. You treat a woman like she's something special. You respect her, you love her, and you do right by her. She'll be your better half, and don't you ever forget it. You don't drink to excess around her, you don't swear around her, and you give her the home she deserves. And if I ever catch you raising your hand to a woman in anger, I will kill you dead. You hear me?"
The conversation flashed through Rhett's mind in a heartbeat. He and his father had never spoken about women again, and Sawyer had been taken by a work accident only three months after that conversation. But it was one that he would never forget, especially as he watched the men and women he had graduated with marry, reproduce, and divorce around him. Violence in the home was rare-or at least, rare that it was spoken of-, but there was enough fighting and sadness amongst his friends that Rhett wondered if his father hadn't been dead right on all his advice.
Now, though, this woman was sitting in front of him. Hadn't met his eyes once, spoke like a damn college textbook, all whole words and proper endings, and was sporting what could only be the sign of a strong grip on her forearm. Those only added up to so many things, in his mind. Setting down his cleaning cloth and order book, Rhett padded quietly over to stand across from where she sat, hands braced on the counter as he leaned closer to her.
"I'm gonna go out onna limb here and guess that water on the floor ain't your biggest problem." His eyes were solemn. "But I'll give you a pass on that for now, seein' as it's pouring out and there's nothing in front of you. I'm a little more worried, Cassidee 'I'm not from around here', as to why you aren't where you are around from." His voice went softer. "And why you are sportin' a bruiser that looks like someone flung you through a wall."
The porch swing had creaked as they'd rocked silently, companionably. His father was nursing a beer slowly, savouring the amber liquid without letting it go to his head, and Rhett was content with a giant glass of Coke. He'd been chasing the ice cubes around with a straw, listening to them clink against the glass, when his father had finally spoken.
"So...I guess there's no point in askin' if you're lookin' at girls yet?"
Rhett knew his face must almost glow in the dark. "Dad, I--"
"Son, your mother and I were eighteen when we had Clyde. I know all about what drives men and women, 'specially when you finally start seein' one another. Now, I ain't got a problem with you kissing and holdin' hands. Not my place anyhow, and I know tellin' you to stop'll only make it worse. But I do think you're old enough now that we gotta talk about how you treat a woman.
His veins had gone ice cold. "Oh God, Dad, I don't need the Talk--"
But Sawyer Connors was already shaking his head. "Your mama will handle that. This is more serious. Now, I ain't gonna sit here and tell you that women are weak are helpless. Your mother and Tallullah would kill me six ways from Sunday. But I am going to tell you this, and you best remember it all your life. You treat a woman like she's something special. You respect her, you love her, and you do right by her. She'll be your better half, and don't you ever forget it. You don't drink to excess around her, you don't swear around her, and you give her the home she deserves. And if I ever catch you raising your hand to a woman in anger, I will kill you dead. You hear me?"
The conversation flashed through Rhett's mind in a heartbeat. He and his father had never spoken about women again, and Sawyer had been taken by a work accident only three months after that conversation. But it was one that he would never forget, especially as he watched the men and women he had graduated with marry, reproduce, and divorce around him. Violence in the home was rare-or at least, rare that it was spoken of-, but there was enough fighting and sadness amongst his friends that Rhett wondered if his father hadn't been dead right on all his advice.
Now, though, this woman was sitting in front of him. Hadn't met his eyes once, spoke like a damn college textbook, all whole words and proper endings, and was sporting what could only be the sign of a strong grip on her forearm. Those only added up to so many things, in his mind. Setting down his cleaning cloth and order book, Rhett padded quietly over to stand across from where she sat, hands braced on the counter as he leaned closer to her.
"I'm gonna go out onna limb here and guess that water on the floor ain't your biggest problem." His eyes were solemn. "But I'll give you a pass on that for now, seein' as it's pouring out and there's nothing in front of you. I'm a little more worried, Cassidee 'I'm not from around here', as to why you aren't where you are around from." His voice went softer. "And why you are sportin' a bruiser that looks like someone flung you through a wall."
Eh, close enough. Northern cred!
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