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Freestyle Roleplay / Re: The Boxer
« on: February 19, 2022, 06:22:39 am »
In his lifetime, Beau had seen a lot of ‘pissed off people’. Sometimes he was the cause, sometimes he wasn’t. The emotion was typically shown by a flushed face, clenched fist and aggressive stance; on rare occasions ice, rather than heat would dominate. Beau wasn’t quite sure he would qualify the demenor of his seat companion as anger. Exasperated, maybe? Perplexed? She seemed somewhat in the middle of his hot and cold spectrum. Myra on the other hand always seemed to flash and fire.
Ironically, his damsel in distress didn’t have that distracted look like most of the people in New York. Eye contact, all be it fleeting. It probably wouldn’t be hard to push things into the fight versus flight category. He sensed there was a switch hidden here somewhere, so he kept his body still to keep from shifting any imaginary scale.
He studied her hands and noted she was competent enough, pin prick aside. Not that he would disagree with Myra out loud. Time and physics would tell if the strap held. Instead, he was left wondering at the sewing kit in her possession and if she was practical by nature. The last time Beau had encountered such an item it had been courtesy of a fancy hotel, the type of thing that was found on the bathroom counter and examined with curiosity more than need. For a moment he pictured her at the Four Seasons, pocketing the trinket for the future like so many women would.
But that image didn’t stick. Angel was no trophy wife or suburban mother. Beau couldn’t help the twitch of his lips as she mimicked his words to avoid a proper introduction. If he had a hat, he likely would have tipped it. Touché
He sat up a bit straighter, uncrossing his ankles to plant both feet on the ground. He wasn’t the type to carry band-aids, although the slight clench of anxiety in his stomach muscles has nothing to do with how little he kept on his person. New York at night wasn’t the best place to spill blood. Even a drop could attract something undesirable in the right circumstances. Myra’s reaction was only a hint of what could happen.
The train was slowing. The station announcement of mumbled jibberish didn’t trigger a need to leave. Most people rode the train for more than one stop, so he was hopeful he would have time to find out her vocation as Myra suggested.
Strangers in New York were often blunt. Beau preferred to be more subtle. At the same time, being obvious was about all he could conjure at this hour.
“And what job is that?”
In his experience if you offered something first, people would counter and give. So, like the name he lead with some information about himself. Maybe if she was curious she would stay seated long enough for the train to roll on.
“I’m in construction,” he said. True in a way. He built things. Tore them down. His hands would have a look of one who does manual labor if she cared to look.
But labels were deceiving.
Ironically, his damsel in distress didn’t have that distracted look like most of the people in New York. Eye contact, all be it fleeting. It probably wouldn’t be hard to push things into the fight versus flight category. He sensed there was a switch hidden here somewhere, so he kept his body still to keep from shifting any imaginary scale.
He studied her hands and noted she was competent enough, pin prick aside. Not that he would disagree with Myra out loud. Time and physics would tell if the strap held. Instead, he was left wondering at the sewing kit in her possession and if she was practical by nature. The last time Beau had encountered such an item it had been courtesy of a fancy hotel, the type of thing that was found on the bathroom counter and examined with curiosity more than need. For a moment he pictured her at the Four Seasons, pocketing the trinket for the future like so many women would.
But that image didn’t stick. Angel was no trophy wife or suburban mother. Beau couldn’t help the twitch of his lips as she mimicked his words to avoid a proper introduction. If he had a hat, he likely would have tipped it. Touché
He sat up a bit straighter, uncrossing his ankles to plant both feet on the ground. He wasn’t the type to carry band-aids, although the slight clench of anxiety in his stomach muscles has nothing to do with how little he kept on his person. New York at night wasn’t the best place to spill blood. Even a drop could attract something undesirable in the right circumstances. Myra’s reaction was only a hint of what could happen.
The train was slowing. The station announcement of mumbled jibberish didn’t trigger a need to leave. Most people rode the train for more than one stop, so he was hopeful he would have time to find out her vocation as Myra suggested.
Strangers in New York were often blunt. Beau preferred to be more subtle. At the same time, being obvious was about all he could conjure at this hour.
“And what job is that?”
In his experience if you offered something first, people would counter and give. So, like the name he lead with some information about himself. Maybe if she was curious she would stay seated long enough for the train to roll on.
“I’m in construction,” he said. True in a way. He built things. Tore them down. His hands would have a look of one who does manual labor if she cared to look.
But labels were deceiving.
