2020-07-19 - Something About Sitka

Itzhak had agreed with Dante to play at Eighty-Eight as he found time in his, frankly, disastrously busy schedule. And he almost called it off tonight--but at the last minute he didn't, and instead showed up in the blue-black three piece suit Sitka's owner bought for him. Very slim-cut to flatter his tall lanky frame, the suit is as faintly shimmery as a crow's feather, and has a waistcoat of nubbly gray silk. Itzhak wears it with a candy-pink tie because you're not the boss of him.

Jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, he's on stage, violin tucked under his chin, playing something sweetly lingering.

It's been a rough and unsettling few days, and even though the casino was the sight of a shooting, August doesn't mind a chance to unwind in Sitka. He's sitting at a table not far from the stage, wearing his go-to 'casual' suit, the dark gray glen check with the red highlight threads. No tie, but a crisp white dress shirt with the top few buttons open, and black boots. He's got a tumbler of something dark golden brown to hand (there's a cherry in it, so probably a Manhattan) and is watching Itzhak play, expression distracted.

Ashokan Farewell is what Itzhak plays. Is it the best choice for what's supposed to be a classy timeless bar and he's supposed to be entertaining? Maybe not. But it's what Itzhak feels, and so, it's what he's playing, a melancholy violin voice calling across the years. A terrible showman, this one, who's inspired to drink by that?

He wraps it up, to scattered applause. Dante's bar, despite (or because of) the casino shooting, is doing pretty well these days. Itzhak would deny he himself had anything to do with that. Anyway, he bows neatly with a little flourish of his bow, then sets instrument and bow in the open case and jogs off stage. A better performer would say something like 'the band is taking five'. Itzhak just leaves. He comes over to August and flumps in a chair next to him, looking dangerously broody.

August is one of the scattered applauders, though thankfully he's too subdued to holler and turn it into a proper club with 'hell yeah brother' ringing from the rafters. When he sees Itzhak on approach he has a passing waiter go grab something for him, though it probably won't arrive for a minute or so.

In the mean time he sips from his Manhattan, studies Itzhak across the table. "So. This a regular standing gig?" He arches an eyebrow. "If you're not careful you'll turn into a professional, working musician."

Itzhak snorts. "God forbid. I need to make actual money." But he reluctantly admits, "Yeah, it's a standing gig. Taylor's even paying me, and not out of tips. I've done a lot worse. Plus, he got me this suit, he's practically a sugar daddy." A flick of fingers down at himself and a wry smirk; Itzhak's making fun of himself, a little.

It's probably the music. Harper passes through the space that delineates the piano bar from other portions of the casino in a white, flowing summer dress and heeled sandals that are dressy enough. Well, they'd be dressy enough if it weren't Itzhak playing that inviting music in his own inimitable way. She pauses there, and watches and listens until the music stops, then she turns to head over to the bar to order herself a glass of well chilled gewurtztraminer. She sweet talks a strawberry out of the bartender and then turns to scan the space, inevitably ending up watching Itzhak and August across the way without much apology to be seen. The strawberry is dropped into the wine glass and she lifts it to take a sip.

"Did he," August says, admiring said suit. He gets a look on his face like he's going to say something he knows he'll regret, seems to think better of it. "Look, we both know you'd rather be doing this than running a garage. Maybe this is just," he glances up at the empty stage, where a DJ has set up some standard louge music on a DAT. Soft jazz, or something akin to it. After pausing to try and identify the song, he says, "Just a way to get there. Slowly."

Spying Harper, he raises his chin in a greeting.

Rose strolls up to the bar, preceded by the soft click-click-click of heels against the floor of Sitka. The woman's wearing a simple black evening dress, ending just above her ankles and the aforementioned shiny black heels. Getting a bartender's attention, she orders a French 75 as she takes a seat at the bar near the others.

Itzhak pulls quite the face, scowling at August, but his heart isn't in it. "...yeah," he says in the tone of a confession, and rubs his fingertips through his curly black hair. It's getting pretty long. "This daily slog of mechanic stuff fuckin' sucks. I like racing, though. I wouldn't mind a racing or custom garage, wouldn't mind that at all." He glances over to see Harper and Rose come in, and Harper gets a lopsided half-smile, and Rose gets a careful warier look. "You know her?" he asks August, nodding in her direction.

A decision made, Harper carries her wine glass across the space from bar to the table occupied by the two gentlemen, stops a few feet away, "Mr. Roen." Pause. "Rosy. You're supposed to inform me when you're going to perform. We had an agreement." Well, at least Harper had that agreement. Itzhak, not necessarily so much. She includes both men in the words that follow, "You both look quite dashing." A few steps over to her left and Harper touches two fingertips briefly to Itzhak's shoulder. "Are you finished for the evening?" Say it's not so.

August raises his tumbler to Rose in a greeting, maybe also in an invitation to join them. "I do know her, I'm hoping to cajole her into photographing the wedding. She's the one who called me old, asked if this was my first marriage." Sorry Rose, that's who you are now: that woman who said he was old and implied he was on wife #5.

He smiles as Harper approaches them, gestures at one of the chairs. "Thank you, Ms. Price, always good to see you." The waitress swings by with Itzhak's drink: a fine stout. No engine degreaser just yet.

Itzhak takes up the stout, which comes with a cold mug to pour it in but that is not the way of Itzhak's people. (New York mechanics.) He swigs right from the bottle. Which is very dangerous when August informs him Rose called him old; he manages to swallow but he's snickering into the back of his hand. "She sounds fun." Harper comes over and his smile for her now is more open, as she touches his shoulder. "Price, how's by yas. Nah, not finished, just taking a break, having a drink. Siddown already."

Rose returns the greeting with a slight raise of the hand and similarly slight smile on her face. If she's within earshot of August's description of herself, she makes no indication of being so. Before long, her own drink is delivered, and she makes her way over to the table occupied by the gentlemen.

"Hello again. This place is somewhat classier than the man who had mentioned it -- his name escapes me, at the moment." She pauses to take a sip from her drink, the champagne glass touching her lips for only a moment as her eyes glance to both Harper and Itzhak, then back to August. "I could be mistaken, but I believe that I only asked if it was your first marriage. I like to think that my speech is restrained enough that I wouldn't call you old directly, at least not to your face."

The polite smile's more of a wry grin, now.

Harper casts a glance over her shoulder as she draws her fingers away from Itzhak's shoulder to regard the woman who is apparently both a photographer and bold with her commentary. A smile curves at the librarian's lips. "Charming." She sounds sincere. August indicates an empty chair and then Itzhak makes his own particular brand of invitation, so Harper steps to the side and sinks into a comfortable bar chair, the glass of sweet wine still held in her hand. "If you insist." Humor teases at her expression. Back to August, "A wedding? How soon?" The glass is lifted in congratulations and she takes a sip. Rose arrives and Harper traces a brown-eyed gaze up over the woman in the black dress. Rose finishes speaking and Harper's laughter is quiet and brief, but no less warm. "Definitely not to his face."

The waitress wanders by the reclaim the unused mug from Itzhak. She's too professional to let him see her reaction, but there's more than a little amusement in the set of her mouth as she swishes by.

"Uh-huh," August mutters around a sip from his Manhattan, pointing the tumbler at Rose. "I know what it sounds like when I'm being called old, Ms. O'Reilley." He's smiling even as he says that. Looking from Rose to Harper, he says, "Wedding's end of August, down in Oregon. Working farm, they've got some gorgeous orchards and a converted space for indoors. We," his eyebrows go up, "do still need a photographer." That last bit is no doubt for Rose.

"I do insist!" Itzhak tells Harper, eyebrows quirking with amusement, although he too is subdued. Not the usual sparkling dynamo he is when he performs, tonight. His mood is considerably darker. The waitress comes by to pick up the unused mug and Itzhak looks blankly after her, like he has no idea in the world why she took his mug away. That was his mug. He wasn't done with...letting it sit empty on the table. Then he upnods to Rose, still a little wary, but warmed up to her since she insulted August. "Hey, how ya doin'. Didn't catch your name."

Piano bars are so not de la Vega's bag. He sticks out worse than a sore thumb here; he sticks out like a wolf in a herd of sheep, wearing a cheap ass sheep costume he picked up at the dollar store. This one happens to look like a sport jacket, with a plain black tee shirt tucked into snug fitting black jeans. At least the heeled boots look like they cost a pretty penny, as do the aviators he's slipping off as he steps inside. His eyes immediately squint up due to the adjustment in light, causing heavy crow's feet to appear at the corners; slow to fade. After a brief glance about, he makes his way toward the bar, orders a "tequila," surprising no-one. While he waits, he tries to catch Itzhak's eye and send him a quick wink.

"So soon as to be considered 'impending', even, Roen. though you clearly chose an auspicious month for the event." From where she sits beside Itzhak she taps a fingertip to the inside of his nearer wrist and offers him the faintest of frowns in response to his demeanor. But there is polite company to consider, so she sips again at her wine instead of commenting on it. She offers to the lovely woman simply: "Harper. Or Miss Price if you're buying the musician drinks." The correction is so mild, it might be lost on the present company.

There's no response to August's further statement about her prior statement about his age. Mention of needing a photographer has her pause for a moment, then she pops open her evening clutch, extracting a business card with the requisite details on it, extending it to August in offer. "I'll likely be available then. Shame that it's a little outside of cider season, though."

To Itzhak and Harper, "Hello! Name's Rose, photographer at large, wedding photographer at small. It's a pleasure to meet you both." Genuine smile on her face at that. Ruiz's entrance draws her attention for a moment, eyeing his attire (and the rest of him, really) before looking back towards the table. "I don't really find myself buying others too many drinks, to be honest, Miss Harper." She purloins an empty seat from another nearby table before sitting with the rest.

August watches Itzhak give the departing waitress that look. "You weren't gonna use it," he points out. He grins at Harper, pleased someone's commented on him making sure to get married in the month whose name he shares. Let it not be said he can't be extra. "Miss," he echoes, maybe to remind himelf. "And yeah, impending it sure is. Only just got the bands sorted, which was a relief."

He follow's Rose's attention to Ruiz, smiles a bit to see him. Out of place he might look, but not unwelcome. He accepts the business card, taps it on the table. "I'll send you the dates and location, and you can let me know what your price is." Is he pleased? Yes. The last few items are falling into place.

This little exchange between the women blows right by Itzhak. He's not too keen an interpersonal genius on the best of days, and today, he wants his mug back. "I want my mug back," he mutters, sitting up from his slouch to crane around. "She took it, I wasn't done with it yet, Roen." This is weird even by Rosencrantz standards.

When Harper touches his wrist and offers him that questioning frown, he looks back at her with no clue what that face is supposed to mean. "You okay?" he asks her, extrapolating that maybe she's making that face for herself? Lucky for everybody Ruiz walks in at that moment, and Itzhak looks right at him and smiles a swift and brilliant flash. "I swear, that man can wear anything and look amazing." He raises a hand to him to beckon him over.

"Good evening," Harper replies to Rose's greeting with her own amiable smile. Rose's look backward causes Harper to glance over her shoulder to see Ruiz there. For some reason, this causes the librarian to rise from the seat beside Itzhak to purloin a chair from a nearby table to pull up between her prior -- now empty -- seat and beside Rose now, the summery cotton of her dress fluttering as she retakes her seat. The use of 'Miss' from the photographer results in Harper tipping her glass at Rose in some sort of commendation before she sips again. As for whether Rose will buy others drinks? "Once you hear Itzhak here perform, you may change your mind," she suggests, not entirely teasing. August receives a teasing bit of a smile as he catches on. "Probably impending is not quite close enough a term to use. Weeks away is no more than a few blinks."

To Itzhak, "I'm observant. And quite okay, thank you, Rosy."

Drink collected in exchange for a modest lightening of his wallet, Ruiz murmurs an absentminded gracias to the dapperly attired 'tender and eases off the bar. A slow prowl brings him closer to the table full of familiar faces, glass lifted for a sip of what's most assuredly top shelf tequila - and seems to meet with his approval, by the face he makes. Not bad. His dark eyes tick to the empty chair that's been provided, presumably for his use, then to Harper for a solid three or four beats. Just a tetch longer than is strictly polite. Then rove on, raking over the passingly familiar Rose, not even bothering to hide the fact that he's checking her out.

Finally, he steps in close enough to slide a hand over the back of Itzhak's shoulder and squeeze it firmly, before claiming the seat. Knees sprawled apart as he's wont to do, taking up space because he can. "Hey, Roen. Miss Price." A smile for the librarian, wolfish, and another sip of his drink before he leans in to tell Itzhak something quietly.

Rose nods back at August. "Alright. They're quite modest, I'm trying to focus my portfolio somewhat more on that sort of thing rather than outdoor scenery. Everyone on Instagram these days, it's.." There's a shrug, and she trails off. "I look forward to your message."

A quizzical look takes over Rose's face as Itzhak mutters about his mug. "Is there a shortage going on? It didn't quite look bespoke." The woman takes a sip from her drink. In response to Harper, "Possibly. I've heard no shortage of musicians growing up, though."

While she'd certainly looked in Ruiz's direction, she'd also noticed that just about everyone else had as well. Hmm. Interesting. And he looked back at her as well. Her mouth opens as if to say something to him as he sits, but seems to think better of it as she takes a sip of her drink.

August tilts his head at Itzhak, wryly amused. "You weren't done with your mug you weren't using?" He asks, half smiling, half perplexed. He coughs, hides a smile at Rose's additional comments behind his glass. "Sounds good," he asides to her. "And they might not mind some more photos for the venue." He shrugs at Harper. "Impending, imminent. Close, definitely."

Ruiz saves them all from a situation involving a mug Itzhak didn't need but apparently wanted. "De la Vega, how're you doing." He gestures to Rose, "This is Rose O'Reilley. Photographer who says it like it is."

"It was mine. I mean I'm not complaining, why should I complain? Just it was mine and I wasn't done with it yet." And yes it is an excellent thing that Itzhak's very favorite distraction comes over to take his mind off the stupid mug. He greets him with a sling of one arm around Ruiz's shoulders, leaning in to hear what he's got to tell him. Whatever it was, Itzhak promptly blushes vermillion, scalp all the way down into his collar. He mock-glares at him, mouth twisting in a repressed grin. "Jerk." Ruiz gets a jostle for that. Then Itzhak clears his throat, coming back from whereever the mug thing took him. "What's ya Insta?" he asks Rose, and smiles at Harper because she thanked him for asking if she was okay.

Harper slides one leg over the other, tipping toward her hip in her chair as she considers the faces around the table. Ruiz's lingering gaze is met and returned with the slightest uptipping of the librarian's chin bookended by a musing hint of a smile. That look then slides to Itzhak measuringly. Again. "Javier," she answers simply. "You look well," the 'for what's being reported in the news' doesn't need to be spoken. Because Itzhak isn't wrong when it comes to the man and his attire.

"Wedding photography is its own beast entirely, equipment and expertise-wise, isn't it?" Harper inquires of Rose with what appears to be genuine interest. Rose comments on musicians and Harper shakes her head slowly. "Itzhak doesn't fit in any sort of collective description. You'll agree, I'm quite certain." Just you wait, my pretty. Harper has a strong opinion on the matter that she makes no secret of, not even in new company. Stubborn? Relentless? Dogged? Something.

August's query of Itzhak amuses Harper, though said amusement only manifests in a bit of a smile and an uptipped look to Itzhak for that reply that may not manifest at all now that the man in black is seated beside him. Itzhak's clear pleasure and quiet exchange with the captain warms Harper's smile.

And who says cops aren't good for anything? August's question gains a somewhat noncommittal grunt from the Mexican, who downs another sip of tequila in lieu of actually responding to the question posed to him. Going by the red rimmed eyes and tense look about him, the man's either a tetch nervous about being gunned down like the old Chief was, or he's on some good drugs. Or both. Which is about par for the course, for this fucking town.

"Miss O'Reilley," he repeats, mangling her name something fierce with his accent, and swapping his glass to his left hand so he can lean forward and offer Rose his right. It's chock full of tattoos, scrawled along the backs of his knuckles and disappearing under the sleeve of his sport jacket. "Photographer, huh? What kind of pictures you take?" He wants to ask if it's dead people, but thank God, he's not quite drunk enough for that.

Then Itzhak's slinging an arm across his shoulders, and he's uncertain for a moment how to respond to it. And tenses, before relaxing, accepting it. A chuckle when Harper makes her claim about the man not fitting in any neat boxes. Which, of course, he doesn't.

Rose smirks, but doesn't object to August's brief description. "Good evening."

She fishes another card out of her bag and slides it across the table towards Itzhak. Should he look, her information's on the card, including the instagram name, some permutation of 'rose by any other name', the name of her 'business', so to speak. "I don't suppose you're getting married as well, mmm? I could probably arrange a discount if you wanted to make it a shotgun wedding." Whether she's referring to Harper and Itzhak, or Itzhak and Ruiz is left ambiguous.

Rose nods slightly at Harper. "Oh, yes, definitely. My usual work consists of trudging through the woods with only a camera, and.." She twirls a few fingers in an upwards motion, then shrugs. "I don't think I could cope with doing weddings on a full time basis. And I make enough otherwise for it to not have to be a regular thing. Good change of pace, though."

The photographer takes Ruiz's hand in her own and gives it a friendly squeeze with a smile to match. "Mostly scenery. Outdoors this and that."

Harper gets an unexpected text, then excuses herself politely, leveling an unspoken demand in Itzhak's direction. She offers wishes for a 'good evening' all around, leaving her finished wine-glass with the strawberry at the base on the bar along with a tip as she breezes out.

"You were borrowing it. It was on loan, with the understanding you'd use it. Since you didn't, she repossessed it." August reasons all of this between sips of his Manhattan. He waves a goodnight to Harper, calling after her, "I think 'made of chutzpah' encapsulates him perfectly."

He almost chokes on his drink at the question regarding Itzhak's possible marriages. "Wouldn't that be a sight," he says, grinning wickedly.

Itzhak turns red again at Rose's question. "What? No. ...what? NO." He flips a hand over at her all Yiddish and stuff, scowling. But he does take her card, slipping it in his breast pocket, where it may have a destiny of being forgotten and turning into a pile of papery fluffs in the laundry. But maybe not. "Tell you what though, I knock anybody up, you'll be the second person I call." August's unimpeachable logic makes him huff a sigh. "I GUESS." Then August claiming he's made of chutzpah makes him laugh. "Sweet talker. Okay, I'm back on."

Before he gets up, Itzhak leans in to murmur something to Ruiz. Then he's up, sauntering for the stage. It's not his violin, but his mandolin, that he gets out. Again, a better showman would run his mouth a little...but it's probably a blessing Itzhak isn't. Who knows what would come out. So when he plays, he just...starts playing, strumming the mandolin, picking the strings individually to make them ring. And then, he sings. Eyebrows tilted up, peaked in the middle in that way he does, eyes hooded, hands sure on his mandolin, he sings.

"Love
I get so lost, sometimes
When I want to run away
I drive off in my car
But whichever way I go
I come back to the place you are..."

Nooooo reaction at all from Ruiz, as regards Itzhak's nuptials. He merely continues to look amused, and sends a glance the departing librarian's way before clasping and squeezing Rose's hand firmly. It's held a moment or two after she's finished speaking, and, "Mm," when she mentions scenery. Outdoors this and that. "Crime scenes are often outdoors," he feels the need to point out, before lifting his glass as if in toast to that observation, then tipping it back for a drink.

A flick of dark eyes Itzhak's way when the man leans in to murmur something to him. And a smile starts slow, at the corners of his mouth, half hidden under beard, before melting away again as he watches the tall fiddler strut up to the stage. And settles in to listen to him play. "Thanks for your help the other night, Roen," he offers quietly while he listens, watches. "Didn't get the chance to tell you properly. Owe you."

The gesture's lost on Rose, but the reaction otherwise from Itzhak leaves her giggling softly, moving to cover her mouth with her hand until she settles down a little bit. "Good. Don't leave your mother hanging. Pregnancy photos are quite popular these days!" She leans back in her chair as Itzhak moves to hop up on the stage -- her eyes go to the grand piano for a moment, considering.. but then back to Itz, watching and listening to him play.

"Mm. That's true, I suppose. I don't usually make a habit of sticking around those for too long. There's all sorts of other things outside too, though. Trees.. mountains.. lakes, you know?"

Ah, Rose gets a blush out of Itzhak. August tips his glass to her in silent congratulations. It's a good thing he's not quite in the process of drinking when Itzhak talks about knocking someone up, because it makes August cough and give him a sidelong look. But then he's looking thoughtful. Pregnancy photos... He finds himself murmuring the lyrics along with Itzhak, low and quiet. "And all my instincts, they return.."

Normally, August would wave off a 'thank you' and an 'I owe you' with a cavalier comment of some kind. Normally. But this is different, somehow. He dips his head, can't help but say, "You don't owe me. Cavanaugh took care of me last time, it was just my turn to repay the favor."

He finishes his Manhattan, snorts at the comment of 'crime scenes are outdoors'. But he also eyes Rose curiously. "You ever get up into Olympic? Hoh Rain Forest, that area?"

For all his restlessness during the break, Itzhak settles into crafting the song's lush atmosphere. It suits the place. It suits his mood, too. His voice isn't velvety or smooth or sweet; it's rough, characterful, a rock and roll voice that he turns to singing this love song.

I see the doorway to a thousand churches
In your eyes
The resolution of all the fruitless searches
In your eyes
I see the light and the heat
In your eyes
Oh, I want to be that complete
I want to touch the light,
The heat I see in your eyes...

Halfway through the chorus, his throat closes up a little, as if he's fighting tears, but he takes a breath and pushes through it. Never stop, the audience forgives you for fucking up but not for stopping.

This particular audience might forgive him for stopping. If Itzhak happens to look toward that one particular table, there's a snarly Mexican gazing back at him. And looking a little less snarly than usual. Inked fingers resting loose over his drink, he's vaguely aware that August is talking to him, but he'll get back to him in a minute. Right now, he's got the music to listen to.

Rose nods to August. "Yes, but not for a while. When I was attending UW, I'd spend most of my weekends trudging through the national park. I can't have possibly seen and shot it all by now, but it sure feels like it."

Her own attention fades to Itzhak's performance as it goes on, his emotional state taking prominence, but the fact that he's able to continue is impressive!

Itzhak finishes it out, letting the last notes of the song swell from his long throat and ring from his mandolin. Then he needs a minute, stepping back from the mic and turning away from the audience and pulling a handkerchief out. A little concerned quiet settles over the people watching as he does. He doesn't take too long, wiping his eyes and tucking the hanky away again, and then taking up his violin. This time what he plays is something Eastern-European flavored, dark and wild.

Rose sets her drink down and claps for Itzhak as he finishes the song. She's not exactly the hooting and hollering type, herself, nor does this quite seem to be the place for it, so she doesn't. Once he does start playing again, she bites her lip for a moment, then stands, scooping up her drink and walking up to the piano to the one side of the stage, then taking a seat.

She slips her heels off so that she can work the pedals as needed, then listens carefully to Itzhak, starting to play along in an ad-hoc complimentary fashion to a song that she doesn't know. She's careful, not wanting to try to try take the lead away from the violin player. Rose is the slightest bit out of practice, but her years of training aren't something that go away altogether, falling back into the old habits fairly quickly.

Those eyebrows go up real high as Rose approaches the stage. Itzhak watches her, while making his own music, until he realizes--she wants to play with him! A smile breaks out on his long face. When Rose sits at the keys and begins to play, figuring out an accompanying line, Itzhak slows down for her. He nods a little to her, waving 'go on! go on!' with dem eyebrows. He still has the lead melody, weaving it around a theme but otherwise improvising, creating something that's never been heard before and might never be heard again. And he can lead her, somehow, too; speaking the mutual language of music theory, he can guide her along. Itzhak grins in a flash out at the audience, and gets low laughter and applause in response. This Rose has moxie.

Rose grins back at Itzhak as he looks over at her, though it's more of a nervous smile than she might show at just about any other situation. If her skin was capable of showing much of a blush, her cheeks would be pretty, well, rosey.

She gets a little bolder as they go on playing, the mental rust falling away, the underlying years of practise at the piano bubbling to the forefront. There's a push and pull between herelf and Itzhak as they play, but ultimately, it's Itzhak's show, and she's just there to mix things up a bit.

Itzhak is really getting into this shit, his fancy-ass black cherry oxford tapping in time as he begins to speed back up, begins to in fact rush along, pulling Rose behind him with a cheerful lack of pity. She better shake off that rust, because he's got the bit in his teeth now! He pushes her, daring her to keep up, challenging her to make wilder improvisations along with him. Until finally he has pity on her and winds the song to a close. Then he says into the mic, "How about that for a little surprise? Give the lady a hand!" and the audience, obeying him, does.

Rose 's not falling toooo far behind, despite Itzhak's best effort to trip her up. Her fingers dance across the ivories of the grand piano, shoulders sending her arms this way and that to make music to intertwine along with Itzhak's violin. She's really getting into it by the time they're wrapping up, a widening smile slipping onto her face. Once it's over though, she can't help but just laugh, standing up as she slips her heels back on. Itzhak's urge for applause garners a bashfullly dismissive wave, but then a slight curtsy as the audience joins in as well.

She grabs her drink and takes her seat back by the table, finding it considerably less occupied than it had been a few moments ago. Ah well.

Itzhak applauds Rose too, violin under his arm and bow hooked through his last finger. "Nice," he says into the mic, grinning lopsided. "A'ight, that's my set. You been great. Thanks." Applause rises up for him too and he accepts it with a graceful flourish of one big, long-fingered, inked hand. He turns to putting his bow and instrument away, loosening the bow, wiping the violin down with a soft cloth before he tucks them into the case. While he does, a handful of people go to and from the stage, exchanging a word with him, slipping cash into the tip jar. He thanks them when they do, chats a little, even laughs. It's like he forgot he's awkward and irritable.

Then he buttons up his violin case and swings off the stage, bringing five bucks or so from the tip jar. This he gives to Rose. "Good job," he says, his gray hazel eyes merry. "You play piano with strange violinists a lot?"

There's precious little for Rose to do in the wake of her own handiwork, no bow that needs loosening, no wiping down of the piano since it isn't hers to begin with, but she does sit there and finish off her drink while Itzhak attends to matters. She smirks when he hands over the cash, taking it and then tapping fingers over it on the tabletop. "I don't think I quite did as well as I would have liked. It's been a while.." The woman shrugs before continuing. "You did pretty well for yourself. How long have you been playing?"

"Been a while, so you thought you'd give it a try on stage with some guy you never met before, right," Itzhak says, mocking, nodding along like Rose's logic is flawless. He unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them back down, rebuttoning the cuffs in their proper place at his sinewy wrists. The crisp fabric is unwound to cover tattoos and scars. "Since I was fourteen. So about twenty years. A little less, I didn't get to play too much in prison. How about you?" Well he just came right out with that!

Rose grins. "What can I say? Inspiration struck me." She watches Itzhak as he rearranges his shirt, fabric covering his skin once more, though not covering the tattooed knuckles. "Mm.. since I was about three up until 20, I'd say, on a pretty intensive basis. Since then, not too regularly. I'd rather be out taking pictures somewhere, I think. We can't all be the spitting image of our fathers." She fiddles with her empty champagne flute slightly, pondering for a moment. "I don't imagine prison has a very extensive string section?" If she's bothered by the whole prison thing, she doesn't show it.

"Not so much," Itzhak says with a kind of rueful humor. "Since you were three, that's good. I mean, it'd be good for violin. Since I started late I'm never gonna be as good as a lot of people. I mean maybe when I'm seventy I can be as good as Hilary Hahn is right now." He shrugs a classic Yiddish shrug, both palms turned towards the ceiling, head tilted, shoulder up, eyebrows up. "Whaddayagonna do, right? Hey, I gotta get going, but you know the owner of this place? Dante Taylor? You oughta talk to him if you wanna play more."

"Supposedly it's the same sort of thing as with learning more than one language, changes the way your mind works? Keeping at it will help, either way." She shrugs slightly. "I don't believe I've met a Mr. Taylor, though I think I've met his.." A pause. Lost for words for a moment. A slight look of disgust on her face before it clears, a particular phrase popping into her head. "Partner? Maybe I'll speak with him, though. I haven't exactly happened across any other pianos in semi-public spaces, and my cabin's too small for my own."

Another smile, and then an outstretched hand towards Itzhak. "Nice playing with you. Have a good evening."