2019-11-18 - Another Picture of a Lighthouse

The view is... Not great. The sky was the color the harbor was known for, but the water was calm. The drizzle had leveled off to the point a lighthouse could be seen out in the bay, shrouded by the mists of fog and rain. Observing this, Leon sits atop his little branded locksmith van, cross legged, a Nikon cradled in his hands, cupped before his eyes. He takes a picture, considers the result, adjusts, takes another. Parked in one of the of the spots near the beach, the lot is otherwise empty. He stands out, visible from the road that meanders nearby.

Leon thought the parking lot was empty, understandable considering he seemed to have the personality to tunnel. A bedraggled Maggi seemed much less welcoming of the days sights, wearing a gray hoodie beneath her leather jacket, one it was far too warm for. The other option was to let the weather twist her hair into mats resembling the roots of a knurled tree , a true no win situation. She approaches a beat up Volkswagen a few spaces away, black, unsurprising. The car was a beater and didn't seem like anyone's first choice, a vehicle of necessity. Irritated by the contrary weather she almost ignores the man as a part of the background himself, until she sees the fact he's photographing things. A bit panicked she approaches him aggressively, almost smacking the hood of his van.

"Look my car is like, maybe a month out of date, you don't have to like passive-aggressively take registration pictures to take into the apartment offices!"

Oh, Leon was tunneled in alright, enough that the outburst was enough to give him a bit of a start, his head snapping toward the sound. One eyebrow raided, a frown creasing his face, he takes stock of her, eyes doing a quick down-up. "Coyote Ugly." He remarks in some sort of greeting, or at least reminding himself who she was. His eyes flick to the sole other car, a slight squint made, then a considering look made out toward the lighthouse, as if wondeing if the addition ofthe car to the shot would give it that signature run-down seaside vibe. "I'm just taking shots of the lighthouse. Didn't even notice your beater." He looks back to Maggi quizzically, "Fuck, what are your neighbors like?" His eyes drop to his camera again, considering the shot he'd just taken before she startled him.

Never having been good at admitting fault, Maggi's lips move to more of a slant. The mark of someone attempting to move awkwardly from on outburst without an apology. Her hand is still on the hood of his van, which she leaves there as though it is intentional. She did not like the judgement of her car, she of course spoke that way of the vehicle, but he was not familiar enough with 'Courtney' to treat her so informally. The car was after all her piece of crap. Maggi's icy gaze moves out to the lighthouse, unimpressed. It was a staple, a hinge, something that did not mind being taken for granted. "Some asshole has been reporting out of date registrations, picked my Courtney instead of the six other cars that are less street legal."

She frowns at the persecution, looking on her golf with pity. "Why are you taking pictures of that boring lighthouse anyway? Planning a heist? Nothing good in it, I promise."

"So nosey, then." He asserts, given the story. The gets a shrug as Leon squints out into the haze at the structure. "I dunno. Was out here getting some lady into her car. Felt like it." Slinging the strap to the camera around his neck, he moves to the back of the van, using the little runged ladder there to move down from the roof. "Everyone always takes pictures of stuff in sun, good light, nature stuff. I thought it looked creepy. Wanted to snap a few." The camera remains around his neck, though, not sharing. He comes around to the side of the little NV200, leaning on his mirror as he looks at her. Cold or not, his jacket was pushed to below his elbows. The bones of the vulture were visible on one arm.

Maggi seems almost appreciative of his taste, she herself preferring the look of things that seemed real. He was right, a majority of the population went for glamour shots, Instagrammed perfection with a filter of cheer. Others still sold iconic shots pf the lighthouse to tourists, thirsty to validate an experience they were never living.

Seeing the beginnings of a tattoo, Maggi gives a head tilt in interest. "Wouldn't take you for a deviant." She states flatly, pointing towards his arm. It was almost a show of interest...almost. At least he hadn't question the name given to her beater, both the car and it's namesake had lived a hard life.

A brief breath puffs through his nose, amusement at her statement, "Don't judge a book." He starts the proverb, but leaves the rest unsaid in implication. He gives her anothrr broef look over, as if returning her inspection in kind. His look flicks to his own arm then back to her eyes, "What? Ink makes you a deviant?" Even right by his driver door, he looked like he was comfortable, the stance of someone not going somewhere soon. Maybe he was interested too.

Maggi raises a single brow at the ridiculous statement, a patented look. Was she judgmental? Extremely. She preferred the term discerning. The brain was after all programmed to do just that, make judgments about the world to be used for survival. While the human race was primarily well past simple survival in its advancement, the structures of time past remained.

"In the culture you are a part of, that is the primary label associated with the choice of tattoos. Now, older cultures you can pick from the title of shaman, leader, warrior...If I'm going to make a proper call on your tastes, you might as well show me more of it than some black lines." He may look agreeable in his circumstances, she was not. Beneath the leather and gray heavy-weight cotton, the environment was almost humid. She almost considers breaking the conversation off to remove layers before remembering the mist. A polite individual would at least have offered for her to sit in the passenger seat by now. Feeling critical her own earlier hostility, she didn't want to press it. He would have to decide to care about her contentment before she did, instead, standing stubbornly.

That measuring gaze, patient in his manner, lingered on Maggi for a few beats. He holds up the tattooed arm as he speaks. "You wanna judge my ink, that'll take a few layers. I think I gotta buy you a drink first." One brow ever so slightly lifts, the corner of his mouth hard, but just hinting at a smirk. He hadn't stuttered, and his choice to reverse the common phrase expressed either some traditionalist beliefs or at least plainly spoke his desire to prolong their interaction. "Were you headed somewhere?" He asks, almost innocently, a hand going to the caribiner at his hip that held his keys, almost implying he was ready to either take her to that drink or wherever she was going.

Maggi's shrewd eyes narrow. She was confused? How could such a man who had brooded over his bacon rather than speaking with her just days ago have transitioned to someone so agreeable. Suspicious indeed. Curiosity overtook the apprehension, though she all but convinced herself it was purely academic. She could determine the motives of most people, yet he acted almost purposefully contrary. Maggi gives the van a side eyed glace, pretending to ponder longer than was required.

Her previous destination had been the grocery store for some Ramen and Kielbasa, though she wasn't sure she wanted the lonely association of those foods coloring his thoughts of her. "I was going to grab some groceries" is the neutral sounding reply that escapes her lips. "But I will accept some booze and cheese fries as a equivalent Mr..." her mind recalls the van she had just skimmed "Leon." Her preferred position was always to leave someone else at an ill informed disadvantage. a sense of power came with it.

A few days ago, Leon had just wanted a quiet breakfast, and was suddenly accosted by multiple people that just seemed like it would take too much energy to keep up with them... Or at least compete for Maggi's attention. "Well, since you're in such an accepting mood..." His wrist bends lightly thumb depressed, the lights on the van blinking to indicate it was unlocked... Even though it already was. Taking pictures with your car alarm going off would have been embarrassing. "Two If By Sea's up the block." He actually steps around the van, opening the passenger door, leaning against it, not so showy to sweep a hand, but at least a chivalrous gesture. He'd slip into the driver seat after shutting her door and coming round, should she actually get in. His camera would be set in the center console.

The inside is actually pretty clean and organized, the van still smelling a bit new. A dedicated GPS is built into the dash, and a breakaway tablet computer folded and slipped into the console. Seen through the hole-punched cage in the back is a rack of machines and open counterspace, the wall behind it hung with keys, the slight jingle of the brass made whenever the vehicle shakes a bit. The other side is shelved with multiple varying sizes of boxes.

The maneuvers were a bit cheesy, though probably enough to make many a woman giggle. She did not want to give him the satisfaction of seeming impressed, offering a bit of a smirk. The feminist in her cringed at the door being manned, a half desire to say she was perfectly capable. After a brief inner dialogue she had convinced herself that this was his van and he could do as he liked without an ethical argument.A single midnight Doc Martin steps gingerly onto the running board as she slides in. Part of her wishes she had put in a bit more effort to her appearance, but she had only been scavenging groceries...

Once inside she takes stock of the back. Whilst the contents of his camera did interest her (many a boy at university had taken pictures to pick up women, she could see if he was the type), she had never had a reason to understand locks and was curious. The realization that he ran a business made her uneasy. He was, respectable? She figured most locks just took a stock key, though she saw several brands and sizes. This was definitely more in depth than her original assumptions. Always inquisitive she wanted to ask about the key types. Not wanting to seem as ill informed as the reality however, she didn't know where to begin. Instead, one hand moves to smooth her hair to the side opposite the shaved bit. Were she to pick a bar, the Pourhouse was preferential, but different could be okay. She was overthinking things, deciding to let him direct the conversation.

He pauses briefly, seeming thoughtful as he clicks his belt in, his eyes flicking to Maggi, seeming to rethink his decision as he just... feels something off about her reaction to his decision. "Actually, I think Pourhouse's fries are better. Trade up?" He smirks as he starts the van, the little Nissan coming smoothly to life. He's a one-handed driver, even though it was automatic, his hand remaining curled and on the shifter like a man used to a manual. He glances sideways and jokes, "My other ride's a Humvee. It's quieter. But yaknow, good for the job. Also, you can look if you want." He could have caught her glance at the camera.

The scales continued to swing with his remarks. If she thought she could not get the best read on him before, now the ambiguity resembled a form of modern art, the interpretations endless. On the one hand the idea of Pourhouse fries tilted towards the positive. The change in venue was to her liking, but a Humvee? The only thing worse would be an admission of purchasing a Hummer. The distinction indicated military, a brick clanking to the opposite side of inner brass. She tried pretty hard to come across as anti-establishment as one can in a small town, it made her question if she was losing her flair. An incredibly impassive being outwardly, she forces her head in the direction of the window to hide an involuntary sour reaction.

She was not anti-America, or freedom, but definitely anti-bureaucratic violence. The minefield of personal interaction had just become more precarious for him depending on how or why he was army involved. She officially hoped the beginnings of talons on his arm did not belong to an eagle. An uncle Sam fan girl, she was not. All he would hear was a "Mmmm" of acknowledgement.

The offer was either kind or cocky for her to rifle through his work and she had not yet decided which. Her expression more controlled, she looks towards him again and answers honestly. "The most important thing is what an artist chooses to show someone, the most interesting part being their feedback on their own work. My preference would be to know more about what you think of what you would show me, so I'll try to have patience for now." The smirk returns, she still was not entirely sure why he had invited her for a drink. Pity was always a possibility,

It was a bit like mortar range-finding with this one, the push-pull of positive and negative reactions giving him a bit better idea of who Maggi was. She seemed like she was intentionally trying to give him as little as possible to work with, trying to read him, not knowing he was using that to read her back. Honestly, he was alright with her not being a big fan of military, the comment an intentional float to see where she landed. That was a dark grouping of traumatic memories, part of his past he was glad was over.

"I dunno, I think the first thing wrong with that idea is calling me an artist. I just take pictures of things." His shoulders lift and fall briefly, an indication of his ambivalence to her commments. He does give her a bit of a cocky side-eye, trying to seem good-natured, pointing out her slip in the impenetrable armor. "Patience, though? You seem kinda neutral. Can't figure you'll tolerate me for all that long." He pulls into a parking spot in front of the Pourhouse, killing the engine, "At least, unless booze is involved. Good thing we're at a bar." Subtly implying it was a positive she'd put up with him longer. A regular charmer, this one.