2019-08-30 - Tattoos With Tea

With a touch of rain hanging in the air, inside is clearly the place to be this evening. Dylan has himself set up at one of the tables that has a good view of the street, and giving most everyone an equally good view of the expressive featured man in return. A tall cup of tea sits half finished upon his table, for he's gotten ever so involved in sketching. The pad is propped up at an angle to make it easier for him to look out through the window and the view of downtown, and his face? Well, it's all scrunched up, tongue sticking out, eyes peering as he works on some small niggling detail that apparently doesn't want to behave.

It's a simple affair that Dylan wears out, all lending credence to his profession as an art student. A pair of jeans with frayed holes on the knees compliment the plain white t-shirt, one that has a smudge of green paint that has been washed several times, but couldn't quite get it all out.

There's always something that goes a little off in drawings. And sometimes the view is obstructed. Like just now, with a tall, grey-eyed woman walking past the window, tattooed throat and arms on prominent display. Love pauses at the door to pull it open, and steps inside the cheerful little coffee shop with a light drizzle behind her. The amount of rainfall on her clothes indicates she walked a bit of a distance to get here, more than from just out in the parking lot, that is. Not horribly far. She wears a simple tee tied in a knot under her ribs, skinny jeans dotted from hip to thigh in tiny dubs of paint, like she uses them to clean her brushes off in the studio.

Her tattoos are black and grey, but there are hits of color up her arms, like she washed her hands pretty well, but managed to miss a few spots just the same, all candy colors and bright. A little smear of yellow hits across her cheek. She obviously went out without noticing it. Once inside, she makes her way to the counter, though her gaze does slide over the occupants, and she makes note of Dylan and his sketch as she wanders past, a set of keys jingling in her hand.

People. Moving. It's the bane of any attempt to try and capture a static set, and Dylan just scrunches up his brow. But then there is a blink. Two. Up his gaze snaps, quickly following Love as she makes her way towards the door, his head bobbing in time with the bounce of her step. His mouth forms a 'O' of fascinated delight, one that is near impossible to miss as his attentive blue gaze sweeps down to study those tattoos. Whatever he'd been working on? It's all evaporated as he flips the page, starting with something completely fresh. Pencil hits pad, and it's only when she looks his way, catching him in a near but not impolite stare that his eyes go as wide as saucers, that mouth curling up into a sheepish smile cast her way. Not that it stops him, of course, from continuing that study of the woman.

Love noticed the shift, and the page-turn, and the stare. Of course she  does — she's looking right at Dylan when he does it. She smiles slightly, not at all startled to be looked at, even with the intense look an artist gets when considering planes, angles, and negative space. She's still smiling when she turns her head back to the counter, and reaches down to clip a little key fob onto the belt loop of her jeans. She leans on the counter with both hands, and orders quietly, sliding some small bills across after she pulls them out of her pocket. She thumbs in Dylan's direction, which is also the window's direction, still talking quietly, nods, pays, and waves off change. She stands for a time at the counter, as her simple order is prepared. She crosses her arms loosely, taking a lean with a hip, and holds pretty still for the solid two minutes it takes the barista to prep two lidded cups with tea bags dangling off the side.

A black leather jacket stops just outside of the coffee shop. Cherry embers pulled from thin lips, a cigarette dropped to the sidewalk before the heavy boots are used to crush it and twist. Ducking under the doorway, the jacket is shaken, fanning the stain of rainfall down the open chest the jacket doesn't protect. Entering into line, Everett's malachite colored eyes look up to the menu. He knows the store is open when he followed the tattoo'ed woman inside, a temporary reprieve from the drizzle outside. He waits until it's his turn, stoic, and save for rolling the chain at his leg, to retrieve his wallet, unmoving.

It's the smile that draws Dylan in, turning his own into something less rueful and one more brilliant, the flash of teeth, before his attention drifts down to what he's clearly sttled on. Her right arm. All it takes is that small bit of encouragement - or at least lack of care - to have his full and undivided attention, the pad angled a touch this way, turned that way as the pencil is laid at a more flat angle to give shading to whatever he works on. Now and then? His attention drifts to her throat and the ink there for further inspiration, and then her lips to see if that smile remains. It's the twitch of his mouth, a flicker to a chair next to him that shows he is divided, one part wanting to invite, while the other wants to take advantage as long as he might of that perfectly still posture she puts fourth. It's only embers from outside, that brief burst of color in the otherwise drab exterior that has his attention drawn away from his sketching to study Everett.

It's a just after her teas are handed over that Love's pale gaze turns to Everett. And then up. She's not used to looking that far up at anyone, and it prompts that little smile to drop back into place. Her gaze slides down the leather, pauses at the knuckle tattoos she can see, and then she says, "Evening." Greeting made, she moves out of the way of the line's progression.

Love pushes off the counter, a cup of tea in either hand. It's not long before she's crossing the shop at a sedate pace, clearly headed right for the artist in mid-sketch. "Refill?" This is asked as she approaches the table, her patent leather Chucks pretty quiet on the flooring in here. She nudges out a chair with her foot, not waiting to be asked to sit. She tips back crossing her legs. She sips from a cup that smells spicy, all clove and anise and ginger. "Drawing from life is one of the fastest ways to sharpen your observation skills, don't you think?" Her accent is hard to place, a bit mixed.

Unlike Love, Everett wants his change. And whispering isn't something the thug seems capable of doing. "Coffee. Black," he orders, holding up one finger on one hand and sliding a tenner with the other over the counter-top. Wallet is returned, and when asked, a gutteral grumble follows and he points, "That size," picking the largest. Both hands return to his lap, thumbs tucked into his front pockets and he slides over to the side so anyone after the deep basso toned man can order too. Coins are left in the tip jar, bills are pocketed, his weight shifts to his left leg while he waits. Love's greeting is returned poetically after a sizing up; a grunt with an upnod from his head. And once she passes, he checks her out leaving as well for the full three dimensional effect before he turns his attention back to the barista.

As Love approaches, the pencil stills, and that first word? It takes a few moments for a dawning realization to overcome Dylan, that yes, he is in a coffee shop still, and he had a drink. "Yes. Thanks." Comes the rush of appreciative words, a lopsided smile dragged up upon his features as he watches her. "Pretty. Tattoos." Those two words likely were meant without the pause, his gaze dipping down to that black ink in far closer detail. Taller he sits when she speaks in a language he's familiar with, that of the lessons of art, intrigue and interest all ablaze in his blue eyes. "Life. Imagination." Down a hand plunges to a messenger bag tucked beneath his table, and a different sketch pad is pulled out and placed on the table in an open offer for her to join.

People watching, it seems, is something he's incapable of not doing. The rest of the room, and then Everett, and it is the fellows height that seems to create some little thought, but one to be explored later as he returns to what he'd just started.

Love's back is tattooed all the way up, or down depending on the direction of Everett's appraising gaze. Most of what's visible is foliage, fine-line. There's no paint on her back, save a single handprint on her ass, in pink. These are studio jeans. Shit happens in the studio sometimes. Artists, you know?

Once she's seated, these various details are hidden. "Thanks, I think so," she replies to Dylan, with a little grin. Her brows go up when a second sketch pad appears. "Nice day for it." She reaches for the pad, almond-shaped nails slipping into the midpoint to flip it open, paging back. Her nails were painted glossy black before she painted this afternoon. Now a few of them are spotted with those candy colors. She's a bit of a messy painter, it seems. She reaches up and pulls a pencil out of the messy knot of her hair atop her head. There's also a clean paintbrush tucked into it. She doesn't glance up as she roughs in a sketch.

It isn't long after his attention turns back that a coffee appears at the counter. The gorilla nods at the human that dropped it off and accepts it in his left paw and carries the to-go cup to an empty table. With his right hand, Everett flips through the table bucket flipping through the sweeteners until he finds two of the same yellow. His cup is placed down, the snow-white artificial sugar poured in and the lid placed back on tightly. The lour still occupying his visage, Everett picks up his drink once again, and carries his trash to the nearest receptacle. A pause there, looking outside, and then he pulls the collar of his jacket up. His course resumes, ducking under the door frame once again as he steps once more into the breach.

"It is," Dylan coos in agreement to Love about the day. When she produces first a pencil, and then he spies a paintbrush there too? He cranes his head, making an unabashed examination of her hair, as if half expecting to find an entire painting in there. When she starts to sketch, he doesn't try to sneak a peek, but rather his free hand reaches out and across the table, making a slow show of it so he doesn't catch her offguard. His thumb seeks to sweep across her cheek, and that yellow spot that still graces her skin, before it is pulled back, and then paint rolled between thumb and forefinger where they both can see the smears it forms. "Been busy," Those words are teasing and playful, a glitter of outright mischief alighting his eyes before that hand lowers to pick up the fresh cup of tea. "Dylan. Rink." It seems either is acceptable to call him, rather than being his first and last name.

Love doesn't move when Dylan's hand comes into view, nor does she look up until he's touching her cheek. She laughs when he swipes the dry bit of paint away, acrylic curling up and off of her skin easily enough. "Thank you." She shakes her head slightly. Nothing falls out of her hair, no paintings or other tools. She has a lot of hair, so there could still be other things hidden in that messy knot. "Painting all day, for the first time in weeks, actually." She tips forward slightly, picking up the cup in her left hand, taking a sip pencil tucked into her right, resting against the edge of the sketch pad. "Love." No last name given. It may take a moment for him to realize that's her name, not a critique. "What's your preferred medium?"

"Painting what?" Comes the curious, honest inquiry from Dylan before he takes a sip of his tea, tasting the heat of it before commiting to a larger swallow. Once it is put back down on the table, he returns to start his own drawing. Yes, it takes a few seconds for him to process, needing to even repeat that word, "Love," A twitch of his mouth as it doesn't sound right with how he produces the syllable, before it all clicks together. "Love. Perfect." Is his conclusion to his it fits her, and then his head tucks down to focus upon his page. "Sketching. Painting," There seems to be a third word there, but for whatever reason? While his mouth works, it just doesn't come out. That pencil pauses for a moment as his eyes flicker up, peering over her way as it taps to his pad, "Anywhere," He explains about the ease of sketching, before posing the same question back to her. "You?"

"A self portrait. I do one about every six months." Love's head tips slightly. "I think it's important to do it, for comparison, year to year." The style change, palette change, perception, nuance, style. She brushes a stray strand of hair out of her eyes, twisting it up with the rest. Her pencil-bearing hand comes back down. She sips the tea again, then roughs in features with a light hand, just the proportions. The skeleton of the drawing is a gestural portrait, face only, with the hint of hair. It'll be a few minutes before a likeness emerges. "I used to hate doing them, when I was in school, even in grad school, but you have to do them enough, you start to like them out of self preservation. I begin in acrylics and finish off in glazed layers of oil. Mixed media every once in a while."

"Self portraits are easiest, of course. Other models move too much. All I need is a mirror and time." You'd think with a mirror at hand, she'd have noticed that paint on her face. Obviously not. "People, landscapes, or abstracts? Or are you still searching for a preoccupation?" That could be her way of asking if he's a student or a working professional.

"Favorite change?" He asks of what she's learned in doing this particular set of self portraits. His own pad dips down, and while it's still rough, the ever so faint starter lines still not erased, the edges not smooth, shading still needed to add the right detail, the concept can be picked out. It's of her, of course. The side profile of her face is just on the edge, only the nose, lips and chin, a touch more. Her arm is extended out, fingers unfurled, showing off those tattoos. But it's more than that, with those tattoos seeming to lift from her into a floating vision above that arm of a lush garden with animals, all things inspired by the ink. One might well get the impression of someone who gives good dreams.

"Good subject," Dyland concludes with a touch of flirtation in it as to her chosen choice of what to paint, before his head just shakes a touch. "Studying. Senior." It's easy enough to suss out from the man.

His brow furrows, trying to find just the right words - two, specifically - to help articulate his interests, or at least potential. "Concepts. Movies," And more, of course, but things similar to that, but for whatever reason? It has to go unsaid. "Enjoy creating."

"Seeing my body fill up with tattoos on canvas. It takes the longest to paint all the tattoos." Love lifts one hand briefly, then puts her tea down and uses her left hand to brush a few lines out into smudges. She works in more of the details, then hooks her arm around the pad to prop it up a bit more. "It's interesting to see the cycles of colors come and go, seasonally. I keep a diary as well. It's always fun to immerse in a traveling exhibit of a master, like Van Gogh, and then come back to the portrait I painted directly after and watch those shadows shift blue and the light go yellow."

Of course her gaze drops to the pad. She regards it for a moment, upside down, before she says, "The liberty you've taken with that, adding the fantastical element. It's good. I'd like to see that when it's finished."

She smiles at the good subject, an easy smile coaxed into being. "Yeah? I try to keep it interesting, brighten up the day for those who appreciate that kind of thing." She nods as he mentions his year. "Open is a good way to go into it. Everything will inform you." Though she's clearly engaged in chatting, thinking over what he says before responding, the whisper of her pencil on paper doesn't stop. She turns it now and then to maintain the sharpness of the point. "Have you decided on the topic of your senior exhibition?" Most schools do them, though she's not familiar with the local program. Yet.

It's that smile he coaxes out that seems to please him the most, and his head dips down and a touch to the side, all the better to observe it on profile. "Inspired," He stage whispers to her about adding the touch of fantastical he has added into the mix, before concluding, "Will finish." And then he taps it, the page, making certain that where it will go once it is done is to her. "It's yours." Once more he straightens up, and it is the talk of colors and shifts of the seasons that has a look of rapt fascination etched on those expressive features, peering her over from head to, well, torso, given the table that is in the way of looking any further down.

"Monochrome. Why?" All it takes is that singular question from her to get a huff of a sigh exhaled, blown upwards to send a couple of strands of his mussed hair fluttering briefly as the conversation turns towards his senior project. "Nope. Difficult." It's clearly something he's dwelt on a lot, and up his pencil comes, the end burrowed into his temple as if trying to rattle something out of his head that just won't come.

Love watches him for a moment, while he speaks now, pencil pausing. She smiles just a touch more when he says he'll give it to her when finished. "Really? That would be incredible." If she finds it strange that he speaks in short sentences, distilling to the more important concepts, it doesn't at all show. She carries on. "Occupational hazard. I always ask these questions. The sooner you start, the fewer all-nighters you have to pull to finish. Do not do what I did and wait to finish it all the two weeks before your hanging date."

"I got so little sleep, I went to my opening, and I'm not kidding, fell asleep at the after party on the beach, and woke up with a sunburn you would not believe." Given how fair her skin is, it's not too hard to picture that. "It's very difficult to choose how you go out. Do what you love, not what you think's required. Passion always shows through. Always." She flicks her fingernail against her pencil, lightly tapping.

That story is listened to, those pearly whites flashed again with that lopsided, gregarious smile from the fellow. "Ended good," He points out, at least from Dylan's point of view as he watches Love, one brow ticking upwards to see if she'll disagree with that. Up one finger comes, "Difficult," and then another from his opposite hand, "Worthwhile," And those two digits twine together, showing those concepts often go hand in hand.

"Skip sunburn," He does however concur with, even as that left hand delves back down into his messenger bag. Should she sneak a peek? There are several sketch pads in there, but it isn't one of those he reaches for. Instead, a few seconds later, a couple of audible taps, and something completely different is slid over towards her upon the table. "Number, Love?" And there it is, a new contact created with her name upon it, just waiting for the push of a few digits to complete it all. While he waits to see what she does, his fingers return to her cheek, getting that last little bit of yellow he hadn't quite managed, a playful wink offered up as it is flicked away. "Passion shows."

"Sure, reasonably so." The ending was good. "Insofar as I remember. It's a little hazy. Wine at the opening." She nods, watching his hands. "Sure, yes. Anything worth doing is going to be a challenge. Mm." She reconsiders with the pencil once again moving over the paper, more vigorously for shading. "Not everything, but a lot of them."

She pauses in her drawing to consider the phone that's slid over, and after a moment she takes it up with one inked hand, pencil tucked back into her hair for a moment. She thinks for a couple of beats. "I just got a local number. I keep transposing digits." She purses her lips then types in with her thumbs, fingernails tapping lightly at the glass.

"Dylan, you're a bit of a flirt, aren't you?" Like she's only just noticed. "Do not call me before noon. I'm either sleeping or surfing or hung over. None of those things are good to interrupt." Not that she'd hear her phone on the beach. She also adds an instagram url to the contact, and then slides the phone back over on the table.

A warm bit of laughter comes from him as she mentions what she can remember and of wine, an enjoyable and easy sound that from one that speaks so little. Down his eyes go to try and get a glimpse in of what she works upon, in no rush to either force the issue of the number or not, but once it is slid back over? He plucks it up to inspect, and a soft 'oooh' sound comes at the extra tidbit of information she's put in. Content, that phone is slid not into his bag, but into a pocket.

"Trying it," He responds cheerfully at her accusation of being a bit of a flirt, head bobbing up and down with a bouncy air, "Getting better." It starts as a statement, but then he pauses, brow furrowing, a suddenly uncertain, curious expression creeping to his features until that look is cast directly towards Love to see her thoughts on just how effective that flirting might be.

For the moment, his own efforts at adding in detail seem to be concluded, that pencil slid away, letting his hand wrap about the tea she'd brought over originally, savoring a nice, long drink of it now that it's had a chance to cool a bit.

Love fiddles about with some details, not quite showing off the drawing yet. She's nearly finished, just adding a touch more shading. Then a neat signature, just block letters with a V in the center slightly larger, stylized: LIVEN. One could easily assume her surname.

She turns the pad and slides it across. It's a portrait of Dylan, rendered in a three-quarter view, with particular attention paid to the eyes, the line of the jaw, the rest rendered delicately with a bit of stylization in the hair, which has a few flourishes into the ends, hyper realism melded neatly with a stylized treatment of the hair reminiscent of a graphic novel's energy. She didn't do much erasing, leaving some of the sketch visible through the touch of shading. It has the energy of the underpinnings mixed with a finished piece, so it still feels very much like a portrait done in a few minutes.

Just after she hands it over, she reaches down to add a smudge under the mouth, which immediately gives the lower lip a tinge more dimension. "The more practice you have, the better you'll be." Now that her drawing's done, she wipes the graphite onto her jeans and reached for her own tea.

Any other thoughts are pushed aside for a good long minute as he studies the drawing when it is finally revealed, the attention to detail, the chosen posture and perspective. Even the signature is admired, before finally he croons, "You're fantastic," And that? Is a genuine compliment, so thoroughly, completely sincere from the man. It's also when his phone starts buzzing, an alarm going off that his fingers fumble back into his pocket to silence while he lets out a heaving, "Ah, fuck."

One disappointed sigh later, one corner of his mouth tucks up, and he leans in just a touch closer towards her. "Offering practice?" It's that touch flirtatious again in playful, even as he flips that second sketchpad closed, putting it away ever so reverently into his bag. But not now, not today apparently, all thanks to that alarm and whatever it is he has to tend to. "Gotta go,"

"Will finish," He promises of that sketch he intends to give her as he stands, the strap of his messenger bag slung over his shoulder. One blink, two, three, and he seems on the fence, before he finally muses, "Favorite?" Out a finger extends, beginning to motion to the tattoos, apparently, at least those that can be seen, before he finally concludes, "Smile." With a gesture instead to her mouth.

"I worked my ass off, so I should be. I will always accept critique from a dedicated artist, and be even more pleased when it's positive." Love's lips twitch, almost into a smile, after he's taken a second to ask after practice. "I'm still thinking on it, but I did bring you a warm-up. In some cultures, that's considered flirtation." She nods when he says he's on his way out, on the heels of the alarm.

"The first one." She reaches up to tap the larger of the two moths on her throat, the one most prominent. A death's head moth, rendered in realistic, fine line black and grey. She tips her head slightly when he says smile. Her eyes are so pale, the color of her hair makes them pull grey and appear silver. "If you'd like to see that, stop by the Platinum sometime and order a drink." She doesn't elaborate, but bar and part of a name is easy enough to figure in a town this small, with a little asking around. "Go take some risks, Dylan. It's good for you."

It's all filed away, those bits of information, tne tattoo she mentions and points to, the bar and everything. He starts to walk, and it is her last words only that he responds to, all about taking risks, "Sounds flirtatious!" He looks back over his shoulder to flash a playful wink, but then out the bundle of cheerful, expressive man goes. It's at the door he lifts a hand, fingers waggling, "Soon, Love." Before he's gone. She'll have a chance to see him walk along the window before he is fully gone, and a few minutes later? Her own phone will buzz. It's a simple text. 'Rink.' Then, 'Fantastical Sketches.' as a reminder.

It's moments later when her phone buzzes that she fishes it out of her back pocket, checks the screen, and smiles. Love tucks her phone away and tips back in her chair to watch it rain, brushing her fingertips over her one cheek, then the other, to check for any more traces of paint.