2020-06-22 - Are You There, God?

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : you asked me if I believe in God

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : I did.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : why?

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : There are a handful of answers to that question, Rosy.

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : The foremost of which is understanding what drives a man like you.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : ....why would you even want to understand a man like me?

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : And here I thought I'd been over the top about how much I enjoy your company.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : okay, fair, that was kind of dickish of me. only, just, you're beautiful and smart and hilarious and you got a lot going for you, you know?

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : I can handle dickish, sweetheart. The fragile aspect is all part of the illusion.

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : Sweet, sweet flattery is a dangerous thing. Have a care how you wield it.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : shit, this ain't flattery, it's God's honest. you're kinda an amazing woman, and I'm, well, this

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : It sounds like you need some reminders, my friend. I, of course, would be happy to extol your virtues at length.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : I, no, look, I'm an ex-con mechanic who used to steal cars. I did time and when I got out I didn't know who I was anymore. there's nothing special about that. lots of guys are like me. I met hundreds of 'em in prison. Literally. I didn't text you so you could tell me how great I am. texted you so I could tell you if I believe in God.

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : We will discuss your sordid past sometime when I can see your eyes.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : which...I dunno the answer, I guess, anymore. Didn't used to. Still don't believe in any old man in the sky who writes names in the Book of Life. But something gave me the Song. Something put me here. figure there's some kinda physics to it, not exactly physics of course but--wait, is that why they call it metaphysics?? shit I just figured that out. anyway, do I believe? I don't know. but I believe in fixing the world.

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : But yes. Tell me.

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : Good answer. If there were an old man in the sky he would be my arch-enemy.

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : From what I've seen, some sort of cosmic-level repair suits you.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : hah. right? who wants to be told they can't push an elevator button on Saturday by some invisible old guy looks like Charlton Heston

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : I'm pretty sure there are people out there who are all about being told what to do. Not my bag.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : not mine neither. but past that? past all the rules and the mitzvot and the made-up reasons. maybe there's something. something that put this Song in me, like it made me tall and gave me this schnozz.

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : Do you think those are predicated on each other or separate endowments all their own?

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : heh, above my pay grade. but if the schnozz and the height are genetic, maybe the song is too. maybe, I dunno, maybe there really is a plan, but not like, a plan like people usually mean it. maybe a plan that's natural as cream looking like a galaxy in coffee when you stir it. maybe that's God.

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : If there is any version of a force beyond human scope, I'd like to think there is more free will and efficacy in intention than all that. But I will admit that I've always felt like life is the great antagonist.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : honestly? I like to think that too. but I ain't getting my hopes up.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : how you doing, everything okay? library good?

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : Hope is a delicate flower. And life is a barren desert. And I'm definitely not as bitter as that sounds.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : hah, that's a very Jewish philosophy. we're a bitter people

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : The library will always be dependably pleasant.

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : It's kismet that we met. That or I'm just crazy lucky, Rosy.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : kismet, why's that

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : I ask a lotta why, if you didn't notice yet, it's a Jewish curse

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : I did notice. It makes you seem interested. And that's flattering.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : course I'm interested, you're interesting. got a lot going on in that head

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : Fate and I are usually at odds. You might be one of very few exceptions, Rosy.

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : Which is just my playful way of saying I enjoy overlapping perspectives with you here and there.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : yeah, I guess you and fate ain't had such a good relationship, huh? me neither, to be real honest, Fate is kinda a dick.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : which is to say, hey, yeah glad I met you too

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : Fate is the dickiest of dicks.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : right? hey, you busy right now?

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : I am not. The library is closed. I just need to lock the doors and tuck my tomes in for the night. Why?

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : wanna have a drink or dinner or something? my treat. unless that's weird. is that weird? I don't mean it weird

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : I would love a drink, dinner, or even something. They sound like delightful options.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : all right, a drink and dinner it is. 'something' is probably gonna involve me playing violin, you've been warned.

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : Warning. Promise. Potato. PoTAHto.

(TXT to Harper) Itzhak : and lecturing you about it if I'm really feeling obnoxious. Firehouse sound good?

(TXT to Itzhak) Harper : I think I'm learning to read your adjectives. Firehouse. Check.

The Firehouse, and here is Itzhak, six foot plus of bad news in tight jeans and snug tank-top and steeltoe boots. He's taking the curb and sidewalk in two long-legged strides, mirrored aviators getting pulled off once he's inside. It's summer in the PNW and the light lingers well into nine PM, a golden afternoon stretching on forever.

Harper requested a thirty minute delay in meeting. And likely the reason why has to do with the weather and her desire not to be wearing her 'work clothes' for a casual drinks, dinner, and VIOLIN meeting. She breezes in a mere 27 minutes after the last text wearing a fedora atop her hair which is knotted low against the nape of her neck, a white tee knotted at her waistline and a long black skirt with slits up to just above her knees on either side. Black sandals adorn her feet. Summertime, they say. And the livin' is easy. After pulling open the door to the newly dark evening at 9:35 pm, she looks around and lets it ease closed behind her. She scans the place, the people present, and eventually her warm, brown-eyed gaze alights on dall-dark-and-Itzhak. Her ready smile isn't far behind as she approaches him and lays a hand top one of his briefly for a gentle squeeze. "You rescued me from cataloging new books. I would have stayed far too late." There is a silvery banded ring on her right hand ring-finger. Her hand falls away with a light grazing of fingertips and she glances past Itzhak. In a small town like Gray Harbor, you will inevitably see someone you know most anywhere you go if you've spent any real time living in the region.

Itzhak glances sharply over his shoulder when Harper's fingers alight on his hand. There is a sense of coiled tension in him, something too easy to let off the leash, lash out...but he sees it's her and no lashing occurs. "Hey. Wow, you look great." His eyebrows go up as he takes in her outfit. "I even like the hat." That's with a tug of a smile; he's teasing. Of course, he's wearing the same kind of thing he always wears, like an animal in its summer coat.

Himself, he's not wearing any jewelry at all, no rings or necklace or visible piercings. Honestly, he's more than decorated enough already: the tank top displays all that ink, plus the odd branching-fractal scarring all up his wiry right arm. Combined with that nose and topped off with a mane of curly black hair, he's hard to forget the sight of.

"C'mon," he says, eyebrows quirking invitingly. He gets a booth. "Starvin'," he adds as he slides in over the vinyl. Is the man ever not hungry?

And Harper doesn't miss the tension, how it rolls off the man who looms over her flat-sandaled 5'6". It might be just that electric potential that flickers her gaze back up at him from the perusal of the social space and those present there. "I think you have yet to greet me without a compliment, Itzhak," she both teases and pins down, like a finger to the center of his chest. "You even like the hat?" she echoes. "I think you in a hat might just tip the scale to dangerously debonair." Yes, she saw the tank top and the boots. Still, she's utterly sincere. Either the woman means it or there's a lot that's hidden underneath for that level of artifice. Still she dances the compliment back around to him as if the interchange were some step and whirl they'd been practicing.

This may be the most ink she's had the opportunity to peruse on Itzhak's skin. She does so, but in her own sweet time. A moment's scrutiny here and there that she makes no effort to conceal, lingering longer on the scarring. Where Itzhak leads, Harper follows, wind on the water and just as easy. She, too, slides in over the vinyl booth seat, mirroring his action from across the table. "I think we're two sides of a coin, there, my friend." There's no elaboration there. Just a friendly, if assessing, smile. "Aside from starvation, are you well?" Others would ask how someone is. Harper is both more circumspect and direct at once. She settles back with a shift of her weight as she crosses one leg over the other beneath the table.

Itzhak spreads his hands in a classic Jewish gesture, grinning a little. "Eh, what, you always look great, should I not notice?" Then he laughs, also a little, at the idea of him being debonair. "I ain't the guy for debonair, no matter what kinda hat."

His left arm, from wrist to shoulderblade, is covered in a sleeve of pomegranate branches and olive branches. Each has fruit, flower, leaves, and wood. It's complicated, full color, and gorgeous, a work of art in its own right. A couple of the pomegranates are split to show the red gems of their seeds. His right upper arm has a sparkplug with wrenches crossed beneath it. Lower, there's that scarring, mostly on his forearm, enough to erase thin strands of the wrenches and sparkplug, and feather the top of the letters S T A Y on his right knuckles. That's a hell of a scar, but it seems mostly surface. It's seared his skin white, as if it cooked out all the pigment.

"Coin?" he says, eyebrows up, not knowing what she means. Then he shrugs his eyebrows when she asks him if he's well. "Could be worse." Pronounced woise. "How's by you, huh?"

Harper's smile warms in her eyes as she takes in the endearing gesture, the turn of phrase, the self-deprecation. "Oh Rosy, how wrong you are. So very wrong. The wrongest of wrongishness." She holds her hand up as if to shake his only to wave it to and fro as if to indicating his person at large above the tabletop. "We do seem to return to this conversation. But it doesn't matter. Some people call me ''patient'. Others who know me call me 'stubborn'. You can have your choice. But the fault is yours. You tripped into my space completely unwittingly. And now you're stuck with me. Like a bear trap attached to one of your very long legs. But hopefully less painful." There might be some inwardly turned accusation there along with that promise, but with that smile, it's hard to tell.

Her gaze drops down to Itzhak's left wrist to follow pomegranates and olives and their branches slowly upward. "There's a story there," she reaches over to tap a fingertip near where his hand rests on the tabletop. "And I want to hear it." She slowly lifts her brown eyes to regard him once more. "Along with a few others."

Coin. "You're usually hungry. And I usually forget to eat. Two sides. Same coin." She explains simply, whether he wanted to know or not. She settles back in the booth, her shoulders sliding downward a half inch as she sinks down, her hips sliding away from the seatback even as her shoulders press there. "I am well. A friend of mine recently disappeared. I miss him. But not as much as Geoff does." It occurs to her that Itzhak was at that birthday. "Easton," she adds, probably unnecessarily. She shared at the picnic what she believes happens to people who cross her path. There's resignation there along with the brief glimpse of sadness.

"I'm wrong a lot," Itzhak says, cheerfully resigned. Whaddayagonnado? He's just wrong! Harper's statement of being a bear trap makes him snort a laugh. "Yeah, well, you're the prettiest bear trap I ever seen."

He follows her glance to his bony, sinewy wrist. A couple of pomegranate leaves come down far enough to fan their tips just over the back of his hand, and a brilliant orange pomegranate flower rests atop his wrist. Fruit and flowers on the arm of an ex-con tough guy. "Sure there's a story. But you don't get it that easy. You gotta trade." Gotcha there, his glance says.

But then she mentions Easton, and his good mood deflates. "Marshall and me were buddies." He rubs his left wrist as if he can feel the ink, looking down. "We slept together. Uh, I mean," he hastens to add, "literally slept, not had sex. He had bad insomnia, it helped if someone was there. Though we almost did that a couple times too." A moment, then, "I miss him."

Then the waitress interrupts exactly at that moment to take their orders.

From her relaxed almost-slouch Harper takes her easy time listening and watching. He's wrong a lot? Her brown eyes sparkle with some unspoken response. The prettiest bear trap? She laughs, lifts a hand to her hat and pulls it off, dropping it by the top to the booth seat beside her. "That may be one of my favorite compliments ever," she confides.

"Do I?" Have to trade? "What do you want in return?" Her brows tip upward in a hint of a challenge.

She watches the good humor melt away when she mentions Easton and then looks increasingly aghast that she even brought the topic up given what Itzhak shares. None of his confidence tips surprise into her expression however. "He was like that," she says fondly. "He and Geoff had their share of nights, too. I think just being with someone he knew and trusted let him release that strong grip of his on the way the world was turning." She nods slowly at the more private knowledge. "Of course you do." She pushes up for a moment to touch fingertips to the knuckles that read 'DOWN'. "I'm sorry to have upset you." She settles back against the bouncy booth, her hands falling to her lap.

The sharp look that Harper briefly casts up and to her right at the waitress doesn't fit at all with her usual demeanor. "Hi, Becky," she greets quietly after the waitress introduces herself, the warmth slowly filtering back in. "I'll have a whiskey sour."

"You got those fancy pear ciders?" Itzhak says to the waitress. "Yeah? One a them. Thanks." He waits until she's off, his eyes tracking her. It's not predatory. Not from him, where it would be from Ruiz. From him it's taking in data, synthesizing same, coming to conclusions. Conclusion: not a threat. She just surprised him. Okay. All is well.

Right?

He shakes his head, quickly, when Harper apologizes. "Don't apologize. Nothin' to apologize for." One big hand slides across the table towards her, a gesture of reaching out, a sort of apology of its own. He doesn't reach for anything, though, just lets it lie. "I'm....well, I been having a rough time. Him gone, and..." trailing off, Itzhak loses focus. Then comes back. "Forget it, yeah? We'll talk about somethin' else. Like, yeah, a trade. Tell me why you decided to be a librarian."

The sharpness from Harper doesn't get past the relaxed warmth now. As for what is well? Harper would say that there is very little that's well. To steal moments of sunshine where one can. Currently, she's sitting at a table with Itzhak. So she's an unapologetic thief.

She watches his hand traverse the table to her side, considers it, looks up at Itzhak, then lifts her own hand to trace her thumb over those knuckles in a brief, tangible show of affection. "No no no. Don't ask me to forget it, Rosy. I want to be the sort of friend you can share all the 'and's with." She utterly ignores his question about her choice of career, such as it is. "Talk to me."

Itzhak's eyebrows slowly drift up. His fingers twitch when Harper strokes his knuckles, as if ticklish. DOWN is on his left hand, his dominant hand. He could pull away, but he doesn't; he lets his hand stay there until she's done. The long fingers are each tipped with a string-player's callous and his hands overall bear a full complement of mechanic's scars. They're hands that do a lot.

He leans forward a little, eyes on Harper. "You should understand something," he says, low and raspy. "I'm an asshole. I am not a nice guy. I'm fucked up. You don't know just how fucked up, but if you keep hanging around me, you'll learn."

It's as though every nuance holds a secret. Harper watches the lazy upward cant of Itzhak's eyebrows. The splay of his knowledgeable fingers. The forward tilt that of his body holds a fascinating combination of invitation and threat. He uses words that might taste menacing to others. By the time she's learning that he's an asshole, Harper has pushed her shoulders away from the banquette cushion to drift toward the table's edge, her head tipping faintly to one side, chin dipping just so as if he were telling her something of the most illustrative yet secret nature. One hand traverses the space from his nearer hand to press the line of her forearm across the table's edge in front of her. She lifts her other elbow to press it to the tabletop beside her hand and rests her chin lightly atop the knuckles of her fingers.

"You say asshole like it would change my incredibly stubborn mind, Itzhak. Easton was a friend of mine. He was definitely an asshole. His husband is my lover. And he's an ex con just like you. Are you beginning to detect a pattern yet?" She gives him a moment to mull her words over, then concludes with: "You're fucked up? Welcome home." Harper's words could sound so very flippant. But they're slowly spoken. They're intentional and hushed.

"Give me another reason to walk away. I dare you." Her brown eyes flare infinitesimally. Challenge. Anticipation. Fascination.

Itzhak has trouble with eye contact. This everybody knows about him, or can figure out after a few interactions. He never looks anyone in the eye.

However? He's doing it now. Gray-green-amber hazels search Harper's eyes, crinkling at their corners because it's a strain. Leaning forward like this, his expression intense, his everything intense, he looks into her eyes like he's trying to read her intentions off her mind. There's the faintest strain of violin music.

"You saying you like asshole fucked up ex-cons, then, huh?" he murmurs, with a hitch of one eyebrow.

She noticed the lack of eye contact in their previous encounters. Possibly that's why she lets the silence stretch, lets her challenge echo, leaves him time to consider all the twisting possibilities. Did Harper notice before the fascinating evolution of color to the man's eyes? The answer is not as readily apparent.

She lengthens one blink at the thought of music, eyes closing slowly, lashes lifting once more.

"'Like' is a very dull word, Itzhak," she murmurs so quietly it's almost a whisper. "And I'm not hearing any more reasons." One knuckle grazes slowly down the line of her throat.

Itzhak's attention is drawn by that gesture, following Harper's knuckle down her throat. He narrows his eyes. Nothing but trouble on a stick. Then he chuffs a soundless single laugh and sits back, smirking at her like they're co-conspirators in an epic practical joke. "You got a better one?" A better word, he means. And about reasons, he tips his head and his eyebrows and one shoulder all in the same direction, in a variant of 'ehhhhh'.

"You're a big girl. You get to decide what you can handle." He's looking at her with sharp amusement glinting in his gray eyes.

To say Harper likes to push people's limits it to say it rains in the Pacific Northwest. She watches it all: his attention, the narrowed eyes, the amusement, and the further body language as Itzhak settles back into the booth. "A thesaurus full," she begins, just in time for the waitress to deliver their drinks.

The librarian's expression goes from complex to simple and friendly in the blink of an eye. "Thanks. I've needed this since about four-fifteen this afternoon." Becky smiles and asks if they'd like anything else. "I think some menus." Harper looks askance to Itzhak. "My friend here is starving. And I could eat." She quells one of her playful smiles. Menus are handed over and Becky leaves them with some time to look things over.

Harper doesn't even pick hers up. She just turns her attention back to Itzhak, full force, as if they hadn't been interrupted in the first place. She drops her hand away from her neck and reaches for the drink she ordered; ice cubes clink against the glass. "You're right. I'll let you know when my delicate sensibilities are overwhelmed." With that she toasts him silently and lifts the glass for a sip.

"Starvin'," Itzhak confirms to the waitress, flashing a smile at her for one-half second that could dazzle the crankiest server. Like he thinks he's charming or something.

Itzhak's cider comes along with a pilsner glass to pour it into, but he ignores it in favor of swigging straight from the bottle after he toasts Harper with a murmured, "L'chaim." Which he does, then licks a drop of cider from his lower lip. His eyes follow her hand when she drops it, then flick up to her face. He looks like he's thinking.

Then he's leaning forward again, setting his left arm on the table so she can get a good look at his ink. "Nu, maybe you don't know, but Jews aren't supposed to get tattoos. It's a dumbass thing and it ain't supported by Torah, but it's a thing."

Poor Becky is so caught off guard by Itzhak's flash of a smile that she nearly trips when she backs up a step to give them 'some time'. Harper lifts the hand holding her glass to press the knuckle of her thumb against her lips to hide her amusement. Becky heads elsewhere with all sorts of thoughts running through her pretty little head.

"How do you say that? La-high-um?" She truly wants to know. Aside from that, she lets him think as long as he likes.

She'd also like to ask what 'nu' is, but for now she keeps her curiosity at bay. "Not supposed to get tattoos? But why? Is it considered to be some sort of idolatry?" Her warm gaze drops to the closer arm to follow the bends of the branches and the fruits therein. So many rules. "You owe me a story." Harper tips an upbrow at Itzhak, the dare still in play. Another sip of her drink. She touches her tongue to her lips and sets down her glass, though she keeps her hand on it. The other forearm remains along the edge of the table, black-painted, shorter nails tracing against the smooth surface.

Itzhak tries not to laugh and rubs the bridge of his nose, hiding his own smile. "Uh. Luh-hai-um." The hai gets the raspy back of the throat fricative that makes Hebrew and Yiddish such distinctive-sounding languages. "Means, 'to life'. Tattoos aren't actually prohibited, see, but there's a law that we have to look after our bodies and not mess 'em up. So at some point someone decided that meant tattoos, but mysteriously it doesn't mean ear piercings for women, and even more mysteriously? When my ma was a kid, all the Jewish girls from the Upper West Side got nose jobs. So how's a nose job or a boob job not messing up your body but some ink is?" He hikes his eyebrows right back at her. "It's a stupid fuckin' rule. I ain't about to follow it."

Harper tries the toast again with a bit more oomph to the 'ch' this time, followed by a silent query that's all about her expression. She listens to the translation and then to the tangled path of rules and omissions. "Mmhmm," she agrees. "If tattoos count, then piercings and plastic surgery for vanity definitely should be on the list." She repeats slowly, the words sounding foreign on her lips, "Stupid fucking rule." She's not imitating his accent, just the words. "Of course you aren't. You're not a sheep in the slightest."

"Exactly. It's making up a law for no reason except they thought tattoos were for bikers and thugs and whoever made it up didn't like that." Itzhak rolls his eyes. "So hell with them." He tips up the bottle for a drink, swallows, and gives Harper one heck of an insouciant look. "I owe you a story after you pay up. That was just a taste. Out with it, I'm dyin' to know why you're a librarian instead of, I dunno, anything else in the world you coulda been."

Harper is the proverbial choir on this topic. She nods with as much derision as she can muster: mostly that's a flash of her eyes and an ironic smile. He takes a drink and she pushes back from the table to settle her shoulders against the booth cushion again. A few notes of laughter tease past her lips before she shakes her head slowly and accuses, "Incorrigible."

Finally she releases her glass and folds her arms loosely across her white tee shirt. "You owe me a bouquet of stories. Don't worry. I'll keep track." Then she considers him with a skeptical expression. "Of all the stories, you want the reason I'm a librarian. I thought we discussed this at our picnic." She hums a little sound in her throat then says, "There are all sorts of reasons I pursued literature and library science, not the least of which is the fact that the job tends to reroute all sorts of assumptions. People hear 'librarian' or see you doing 'librarian' things?" She unfolds one arm to sketch her hand across the space in front of her face. "People immediately decide what and who you are. It's the most spectacular mask in the world. And I simply don't believe most people deserve to know what or who I am." The hand tucks back in against the opposite bicep. She watches Itzhak thoughtfully for his reaction to her first reason.

"We discussed it some," Itzhak says, trailing off the last word like it wasn't near enough for him. And it's Harper who's the recipient of that brilliant and rare flash of a smile when she calls him incorrigible.

He hikes his knee against the edge of the table and settles back, listening with interest. With great interest, actually. He listens with the intensity of a musician, dissecting breath and syllable and prosody. He looks at his cider bottle while he listens to her, having spent all his eye-contact coin already. When she says that being a librarian is a mask, he looks up though, eyebrows raised, surprised and pleased. And more so when she says she doesn't believe most people deserve to know who she is. His knee slips down again and he leans forward, eyes on the tabletop, one ear aimed towards her.

Then he bounces a finger at her, nodding, satisfied. "That. That's what I wanted to know." Now she gets another glance, this one quick. "So you're saying I deserve to know who you are."

Harper knows the value of that smile, or at least she has the beginnings of that knowledge. So when it flashes she stills and simply takes it in, breath held a moment.

She finishes her 'story' and watches his reaction to it with the same keen interest he's seen on multiple occasions now. Slowly unfolding her arms to reach for her glass, Harper takes her time bringing it to her lips for another sip, eyes on Itzhak all the while over the rim of her glass. He leans in, she glances to the ice cubes in the drink. Finally she slides it back onto the table.

"Why did you want to know that, Itzhak?" Harper asks softly. He's leaning forward: he can hear her just fine. Her steady, warm gaze is there on him when he casts his glance. "It's a step in that direction," she finally murmurs mildly. "My story..." she then prompts. Quid pro quo.

"I wanted to know because you could do anything." Itzhak waves sharply, as if to dismiss any oncoming protests about Harper's ability to do anything. "Look, a guy like me, a guy like de la Vega? We can't actually do anything. Sure, sometimes someone who comes from the places we come from wins the fuckin' lottery and gets to be a movie star or invents the cotton gin or something. That's as rare as catching a meteorite in ya teeth. Mostly guys like us wind up, well, as guys like us." He gestures to himself, his eyes on the tabletop near Harper. "Though he did better'n me.

"But you? Look at you. You're smart--I mean, I'm smart, it don't mean hardly nothin', look what it's got me. You're smart though and you got sense and you know how to deal with people, and you're beautiful and you got wit. You could do anything, and I mean anything, you wanted. You could be some zillionaire's wife or you could be President or you could, I dunno, be one of those super badass nuns who serve the poorest people in the world. Or literally whatever you wanted to do. So you picked librarian. That's why I wanted to know."

Then...the quid pro quo. His story. He quirks those talkative eyebrows at Harper. "Aight, ready?" First though he's got to take another drink of cider.

And order, when the waitress ventures back. He asks her for the roast chicken.

Harper listens. She listens as Itzhak begins with a grandiose pronouncement and then he shores it up with one reason after another. At one point after he compares himself and Javier to her, two proverbial peas in a freaking pod; she parts her lips to interrupt, but he goes on. Intelligence. People-sense. Beauty. Wit. Versatility. When he gets to President she reaches for her drink again and takes a longer swallow, hardly finishing that before he gets to badass nuns. Amusement lights like a flame in her eyes and then teases a laugh in her throat. "Oh, Itzhak," she begins affectionately, like someone who is going to argue. So much to say.

"I'm not sure what doors you feel are closed to you in this life -- or in Javier's for that matter -- but I will tell you that when I look at you, in all my vast wisdom and perception, I see a man who opens doors. " She reaches over to trace a fingertip over the 'N' in 'DOWN', intending to make sure he doesn't read her words as anything but sincere. "If you're going to give me that much credit, you have to give me all of it." She drags her hand back toward her side of the table, tracing the same fingertip through the drops of water that sweated from her glass. "I know there's so much about you and your life that I don't know. It's easy to look in from the outside and sound like I see the world with rose-colored glasses. I guarantee you I do not. I am a rabid fatalist. And as your friend, I want you on my lifeboat. I'd like to throw myself between you and all the dark things that hunt you. You'd be surprised. I'm not so terrible at it once you get past the death sentence." She smiles slowly.

Becky returns. Harper orders -- of all things -- a grilled cheese sandwich and fries. Menus are taken and Becky heads off with a purpose.

Is she ready? "I'm so ready I could use another drink," she agrees with that radiant smile full of expectation.

Itzhak's hard to interrupt. He talks like he drives, aggressive and way too fast. In his rough, characterful voice and that New York Jewish accent that could blast a concrete driveway clean, talking to him can be an adventure all its own.

"Rose colored--nah," he says, surprised. "Nah, that's not what I mean at all." And when she says she'd throw herself between him and the darkness... he lifts his head, sly arrogance, and taps his chest. "I'm the tank." Well, he certainly took that seriously.

However, story time! Time to pay what he owes.

Harper gets to touch the N on his knuckles, but his right hand ('STAY') is on the move, flashing and dipping while he talks. "Seven fruits and grains represent Israel. Dates, wheat, barley, grapes, figs, and," those fingers flick towards his left arm, "pomegranates and olives. Pomegranates mean majesty. The queen of fruits, one that tops Torah scrolls and one we eat on Rosh Hoshana, because it's rare, it's special. Olives mean beauty and strength, and they're important for everyday food. I had the pomegranates only when I moved here. I got the olives here, almost a year ago now. I picked pomegranates first because," and here he smiles, lopsided and winsome, "I'm a pretty queeny fruit myself. Tellin' the world I'm queer, that's what those are for."

There's even something musical about the aggressive nature of Itzhak's conversation. At least there is to Harper. She ends up resting her chin on her fist for some of that, at least until she finishes off her drink. "You're the tank," she echoes as if doing so would cause the statement to make more sense to her. "What does that mean?"

Harper is far too much a fan of such debts to be the person most of the world sees. Her brown eyes light up as he starts in on the fruits and grains. Half the time she watches his face, the other half of the time her gaze tracks the movements of his right hand. She follows along. Pomegranates: majesty. Olives: beauty and strength. "When did you move here?" Surely he's told her that before. Why doesn't she remember?

Oh, that lopsided, winsome smile. Harper swims in it for a bit before the words that followed settle in and really have an impact. She tries to quell a grin that spills out into laughter that might be just this side of tipsy. "You're a pretty, queeny fruit, Itzhak Rosencrantz. And now you're my friend. It's too late for you. Abandon hope all ye who enter here." This last she lifts her voice to warn the tables around them before looking back to Itzhak once more with that capricious bit of a smile. "You are adorable." She pauses, then qualifies it. "Not like a baby, but like a special treasure. And I think I'm feeling like a pirate tonight."

"Means if there's flingin' between someone and the darkness to be done? I'm the one who does it." Itzhak is serious about this. He's really serious about this. He taps the table with his cider bottle for emphasis. "I"m the one who takes the hits. I'm the one who's first in, last out. Protectin' people is a tank's job. I'm a tank."

And when Harper confirms that yes, he's a pretty, queeny fruit, and calls him an adorable treasure, he laughs too, glancing away. "Nah. Just a mechanic and a fiddler. If anyone's adorable here it's you."

Harper settles into the table with both forearms and her shoulders up by function of that position; and she watches Itzhak. She watches him as if there some covert message there she could discover by sheer force of will. "And is that simply a state of mind, or is there a honed skill of some magnitude of which I am not aware?" She says this as if she would be aware of all such skills, though the ironic smile remains there in shadow, inwardly directed. It lives in the shadow of her curiosity, though. "I mean, would we have to arm wrestle over the opportunity to fling ourselves into harm's way? Don't you write me off, Rosencrantz." Though her voice has gone so very soft across six inches less of table between them, there's the ever-present play in it that might even be evaluated as challenge.

Harper may just enjoy Itzhak's laughter more than she did the whiskey sour, given the curving, private smile she offers him after he laughs. "I don't think I'm going to allow you a 'just', Rosy. Not at all."

Is she adorable? She puckers her soft lips ever so faintly and breathes an air kiss at him. "We see in others what we see in ourselves. It's part of the human condition. And, just so we're clear, I have a sudden craving for pomegranates." Can she help it? It doesn't appear she can. Not with the current company.

Itzhak is given to think about this. What makes a tank a tank? His gray-green eyes drift off to somewhere above Harper's head to the right. "Well, in video games, usually you get some cool powers that make you a tank. You get a shield or armor or both, you can do stuff like pull aggro--that means pissing off enemies so they come at you instead of the rest of the group. But it takes skill. You gotta know how to do it, and you gotta manage your resources. Takes a certain kinda attitude, too. People who do damage are a certain kind, people who heal are a certain kind, people who tank are a certain kind. So me, I'm a tank. Let me be your shield." He raises his eyebrows at Harper, smiling a little, and drains the rest of the cider. "We don't gotta arm-wrestle. Tanks work best in pairs. Unless you really really want to!"

Then she's blowing a kiss at him and saying she's hungry for pomegranates and he snorts, turning red. "Ya terrible. I hope you know that. I hope you're well aware."

Harper is more than content to drink in the details of the way Itzhak holds himself, what hints of mindset she can read in his body language while he gazes off past her. She's not a woman prone to pushing past the story to get answers; that's not at all her style. And Itzhak has been a spectacular story from the first time she saw him performing at the Winter Festival. There's nothing dreamy about her gaze, no imagined fairy tales winding through her mind making something where nothing is there. There are parts of her that are more apparently pieces of that mask she described, but beneath are scattered glimpses that briefly come to the fore when the light hits just so or the acoustics of the room fall just right.

"A shield. Armor. Aggro-magneting. So it is a skill," she muses, lacing her fingers together on the table, completely comfortable in her forward lean. "I'm not sure what I am. I'm not a healer. I'm not so certain about damage, either. Though werewolves should fear me." Behind the warmth there is a certain sincerity. And yes. Yes, she said werewolves. Are they even having the same conversation?

He tells her that she should let him be her shield. "You can't shield everyone, Rosy. And I'm pretty sure you already have a lengthy list." The woman pays attention. "Besides," she untangles her fingers to lift her left hand up, elbow still on the table, to pat-pat above her heart. "-- there's too much fury in here for me to duck and hide. I'm not a very good damsel." Whether she should be is another question entirely. She watches Itzhak finish off his cider. "Is that really true or are you just really set on avoiding getting shamed by a librarian throwing your arm down on the table?" Harper's brown eyes twinkle. She can't be serious.

Extra! Extra! Itzhak Rosencrantz turns red! Harper's low laugh warms in her throat but doesn't quite escape its home there. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Itzhak." She sparks a challenging look, then catches Becky's attention as she moves past. "Sweet Becky. We definitely need another round." She taps her own glass twice. Becky looks to Itzhak. Does he want another cider or something else?

"Tank," Itzhak says, firmly. "You wanna fling yourself between someone and danger? Got a lotta fury wants to get out? Tank."

Lucky for Harper, Itzhak's not the kind of guy who lends himself to dreaminess and fairy tales. He's rather a man who bears the scars of a life hard-lived. Nothing romantic about him. He's got prison ink on his knuckles and a lot of lines on his face and a violent past he's only hinted at. No smooth-faced beautiful boy easy to imagine as a prince or a poet, this one. Not that he was probably ever considered really beautiful by most people in his life, not with that schnozz and lanky bod. If he's from a fairy tale, it's a New York fairy tale.

Grinning at Harper, he shrugs, spreading his hands. "Look, if you win at arm wrestling, I can't ever show my face in this town again, so have mercy on me, yeah?" Becky reappears; he gets a different cider this time, blackberry.

Disney eat your heart out. Grimm is where it's at. Throw in the Big Apple as setting and voila.

Harper sees what she sees when she looks at Itzhak. Becky leaves to fetch drinks and Harper remains leaning in, this time lifting both hands to lace her fingers together and drifting her chin atop the nest of her knuckles. "I'm not sure if that says something about you or about me, Itzhak. But if it is mercy you want, mercy is what you'll have." As if that were a change of innings at a Yankees game, she drops back away from the table and breathes a slow breath in and then exhales just as slowly, physically letting go of the conversation that was. "So tell me about 'STAY DOWN', then." Drinks are delivered. Food arrives shortly thereafter. Roast chicken for the tall glass of water; grilled cheese for the starry-eyed librarian. Harper lifts her glass after Becky leaves and holds it up to Itzhak, "Fruits and grains."

"Only sometimes," Itzhak says, about mercy, with a glint in his eyes. He looks down at his knuckles, then holds his hand up with the back towards Harper. "You know what Alexander called it? Protective coloration. Got 'em in prison. Keeps most of the assholes away. On the outside, too." He shrugs again, mouth twisted. "It's kind of a rank thing, havin' these. You're either enough of a badass to back it up, or you're a complete idiot. Or both. Both is pretty common." Is he talking about himself there? Maybe.

The waitress brings the food and he puts away the look that was in his eyes to say to her, "Aww hell yeah," with real enthusiasm. Food! YES! When Harper raises her glass, he hikes his eyebrows at her, tips his bottle. "Fruits and grains. L'chaim."