2021-01-22 - Mittens For All

Today is miserable. Just freakin' miserable. Rain and snow, slushy streets that will refreeze overnight and turn into epic Slip and Slides. Road salt is light in this part of the country, because of the delicate wetlands that thread everywhere through the region.

Just outside of Espresso Yourself is an old woman who asks everyone who comes by if they'd like to buy some mittens. "Hand knitted," she's saying. "My own work." She's bundled in a dozen layers. Likely homeless, or soon to be homeless.

Bundled up against the weather in a thick winter coat and a matching scarf and hat, Turner pauses on his way into the building to smile at the old woman and actually engage with her for a moment. "How much are they?" he asks, tilting his head slightly as he regards her in a way that suggests empathy, rather than pity. Money is tight, but he was raised to help the less fortunate, and money isn't so tight that he can't afford an occasional splurge, yet.

So cold. Scott is bundled up even more than usual as he starts making his way into the coffee shop, pausing for a few moments as he looks to that old woman and Turner. He comes to a stop as he listens to hear the answer to that question, once in a while glancing around.

The old lady, her face wrinkled and drooping like a hound's, smiles at least four teeth at Turner. "Five dollars. Five dollars, the work of my own hands." She opens the grocery bag she's carrying. Inside are several sets of mittens that are handsomely knitted, in several different solid and ombre colors and patterns, each neatly wrapped in a plastic baggie. "I have some I think you'll like," she mutters, pushing them back and forth until she finds the ones she wants: a standard pattern in deep cherry-red. "The color. The color will keep you warm, too."

Itzhak Rosencrantz comes along, bundled up in woolen peacoat, knit cap, his hands deep in his pockets. He's got a weary, unhappy look. This look transforms to wary curiosity when he sees both the old lady and Turner. "Hey, I don't know you," he says to Turner, in a sharp New York accent.

"Young man, would you like to buy mittens?" the old woman is prompt to ask him, and he freezes up a little at the unexpected question. "Uh," he says.

"Oh, yes, those are lovely!" Turner's genuinely pleased by the red mittens, and takes a moment to pull out his wallet from beneath the long coat, "You're undercharging, ma'am." He tells her, before pressing a 20$ bill into her hands. He's currently wearing a pair of cheap knit gloves that do very little to break the cold, so the mittens are probably a welcome addition to his winter wear. "Here."

At Itzhak's question, Turner looks up with another, more hesitant smile. "I work at the library." he offers by way of explanation, since that seems to be where most people know him from. He's soft spoken, with a pleasant enough voice.

Pausing as he sees Itzhak arrive as well, Scott is unable to hold back a brief grin. "I'll have a pair," he offers to the old woman, stepping closer. He offers a nod to the other two, along with a brief grin. "Hey."

The old woman takes the folded twenty willingly enough, but then says, lifting her head, "I haven't taken charity in all my life. You must have another pair. Another pair, at least." And she's diving into the bag again.

Itzhak, taking his social cue from Turner, not to mention remembering the homeless on the streets of NYC, clears his throat, flushing a little. "Yeah. Yeah, I could use some new ones." This has the flavor of a polite lie. "You really are undercharging, bubbe." To Turner, he gives him a narrow-eyed looking over. "Library, huh? Ain't been there in a while, gotta say." Then, after debating with himself a moment, "So what pronouns do you use?" Scott also gets an upnod and a hitch of the eyebrows. "Scotya, how's ya doin'."

"It isn't charity, ma'am. These took time to make, it's paying you a more fair wage. If you sold these online, you could charge at least twenty dollars a pair." Turner tells her, but it's clear if she insists he'll take the second pair so as to assuage her sense of honor.

"Um... He/him." Turner offers, smiling in a manner that suggests he's never been asked before, but it pleases him to be asked, even if it confuses him slightly. "I've only been there a few months, but I used to study there after class a lot..."

"I think he's right. You could charge more for them," Scott replies to the woman, before he grins at Itzhak. "Aside from worrying that I'll freeze my fingers off, I'm rather good. How about you?" He offers a nod and a smile to Turner as well. "The library's quite nice," he offers, with a smile.

A pair of yellow-to-blue ombre mittens with purple stripes for Itzhak, and the same pattern in purple-red for Turner, and then a nice plain teal pair for Scott. The old lady beams, absolutely thrilled to get business. "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you, you're very kind young men, these are good mittens. The work of my own hands. My own hands."

Itzhak pulls out a twenty of his own. "Keep the change, bubbe, yeah? You earned it." He says this with casual assurance, so the old lady hesitates, but then takes it and smiles at him. And then insists on pressing another pair on him, but these are fingerless gloves, no doubt because Itzhak taking his hand out of his coat pocket revealed the fact that he's wearing wool gloves with the fingers snipped off. She makes a fuss over that! Hers are better! Oh he mustn't go about like that, she has lovely ones that have the fingers properly knitted off. Itzhak accepts this too with bemusement.

He hikes his eyebrows at Turner. Those eyebrows, they do a lot. "Yeah? A few months, huh. What'd you say your name was? ...hey, you wanna go in? It's fucking freezing. How about you, bubbe, you want a coffee?" he asks the old woman, too.

"Thank you so much, ma'am." Turner says with the softest of smiles, accepting both pairs before sliding them into his pockets, for now, since he's clearly planning to head in. "Turner Quinn." he offers to Itzhak, forgoing any sort of hand shake for the moment, since it's bloody cold, and instead opening the door and gesturing inside.

Like the others, Scott hands the old lady a twenty, smiling. "Thank you for making these lovely mittens," he replies to her. As the others open the door, he nods as he looks inside. "Looks far better inside," he remarks. At the introduction, he offers Turner a brief grin. "Scott Hamilton," he introduces himself.

Itzhak jerks an upnod to Turner. "Rosencrantz. Itzhak." He tags on his first name like an afterthought. It's a hell of a first name, too, pronounced in a distinctively nonEnglish fashion--yit-ZOK. "This here's Scott," just as Scott introduces himself. "He plays keyboards. C'mon, yeah?"

When Itzhak holds out a hand to her, the old lady demurs about going inside, shaking her head and looking so frightened for a moment that Itzhak hastily follows his offer up with, "Hey, it's okay. Why don't I bring you something." Then he heads in.

The interior of Espresso Yourself is a little quieter than usual, this afternoon. Perhaps owing to the shit weather. One of the clientele taking up space at a medium sized window table is a dark-haired, Hispanic looking fellow in a battered leather jacket, tee shirt and jeans. He's fussing with the ballcap on his head while checking messages on his phone, and sporting a pair of fuzzy green mittens on the table in front of him, right beside a steaming to-go cup of coffee (that clearly to-went nowhere).

At the fear from the old woman, Turner is clearly concerned, brow furrowing slightly. "We'll be just inside, if anyone gives you any trouble." he says softly to the woman, glancing from Scott to Itzhak, then following the tall man in with one more backward glance toward the old woman, lower lip barely caught between his teeth.

Scott pauses for a few moemnts at the fear the old lady shows, before he nods at Turner's words. Moving to follow the others inside, he looks sround for a few moments, a bit thoughtfully.

Itzhak tucks both pairs into a pocket, and smiles wearily but happily when he spots the Hispanic fellow in that battered jacket. And at the sight of the green mittens next to him. Coming over, he thumps Ruiz affectionately on the shoulder. "Hey youse. This here's Javier de la Vega," he tells Turner, and to Ruiz, "Turner Quinn. New librarian." Then he goes to order coffee, two of them, one of which he pops outside to give to the old mitten-seller.

Thumbing through something in his feed that clearly amuses him, despite the constrained smile that sits at the edges of plentiful crow's feet, Ruiz glances up at the thump. "Rosencrantz," he greets in a low murmur. A flick of dark eyes from the lanky mechanic, to the guy he came in with. And a minute dip of his chin in greeting, after he's taken the younger man's measure. "Hola." New librarian has him looking curious. "What was wrong with the old one?" His accent's thick, despite years of trying to smother it. Probably a Mexican, judging by his intonation.

There's the sound of the door, again. The figure that enters is garbed in the drab shades deemed most appropriate for men: black fleece watch cap, white silk scarf, dark blue-gray greatcoat, dark indigo jeans, battered black boots. But Joe is pulling on a set of fingerless gloves knit in shades of greenish-blue from pool-water aqua down to the deep teal of glacier ice...and on the broad lapel of the great coat gleams not a military decoration but a pair of pins in bright enamel and gold: the Little Prince and his Rose. Looks like he couldn't resist the Baba gauntlet, either.

He's limping, as he often is in the cold, but there's no pain in his face, none of the drawn quality that means he'll need recourse to the pill bottle. No, he's examining the new mitts with a sort of feline self-satisfaction, then reaching up to pull off the watch cap. It leaves the blond curls in a Doctorish sort of disarray, as he greets Ruiz and Itzhak with, "Hey, y'all."

"Nice to meet you, sir." Turner smiles at the older man in a soft, polite way as he slips out of his oversized coat, scarf, hat and gloves. The hat has made off with his hair tie, however, leaving his curls in an unkempt mess that he absently tries to tame with his free hand. "Um... nothing. I'm just an assistant librarian, I didn't oust her and steal her throne or anything... I'm pretty sure she could beat me up, if I'm entirely honest..." He looks a bit like the old lady outside could beat him up, for that matter. Or maybe a strong breeze.

Itzhak, coming back inside on Joe's heels, thumps him too, rather more gently. "Cavanaugh." Then he picks up his own coffee, which is a bowl of cappuccino, and comes over to Ruiz's table, and sits down in a slump. His slump is lopsided--he's holding his right shoulder funny, like it hurts. "Yeah I don't think Harper went nowhere. So Turner, what brings ya to town?" That...is a loaded question, although he tries to say it lightly. It's freighted with subtle meaning that Itzhak is nowhere near subtle enough to hide.

Scott smiles, as he offers a nod to Ruiz, and then to the ones entering again, before he moves to order himself some coffee and something to eat, all ready to go. But he steps back to the others.

A glance up, brief, when Turner mentions being an assistant librarian. Then a little double-take, like Javier's only just now processing the fact that he just got called sir. He squints at the kid for about eight or nine seconds, the tip of his tongue visible between his teeth. Then he finishes off whatever he was doing with the phone, and shoves it away. His coffee's reached for, turned slightly, sipped from while the pair chatter. He? Doesn't seem like much of a chatterer. He does however have quite the knuckle tatts going on.

Dark eyes straying toward the arriving blond, Joe gets a brief twitch of his mouth in what probably passes for a smile. Scott gets a polite nod, and then he's watching his tablemates. And probably silently judging their choice of caffeinated drink.

Joe shoots Itz a tolerant look, after a glance at Turner. "Same thing we do ever'night, Pinky, try an' take over the world." He attempts the Brain's deadpan delivery, but it sounds utterly ridiculous in a lazy Georgia drawl, enormously out of place in the PNW....and is spoiled by a broad grin. The thump has him chuckling, and then he's extending his hands, one each to Itz and Ruiz, as if expecting them to take them and form a circle with them. But no, he's showing off the mitts with the brash assurance of a newly engaged woman flashing the diamond at her friends. "Check it out," he says. "Matches my tattoos." And indeed, they do - the same blue shading adorns the ink on his knuckles: HOLD FAST

Then he turns that blue gaze on Turner. "Man, I imagine a career in library sciences'd be a hell of a lot wilder if that was how you had to advance. Kinna Game of Thrones, y'know? Win or die." He insinuates himself in the line to get a drink, but he's still oriented towards the others. Javier in particular gets that feline smile, before he asks Itzhak, "What happened to you? Bad Dream?"

There's a second where Turner looks confused at Itzhak's question, his head tilting just a little. "Oh, I'm local. I've never been any further than Harstine Island..." he trails off after mentioning the island, suddenly uncomfortable, before he smiles again, turning his attention to Joe almost gratefully. Look, a distraction! "I'm pretty sure I'd have needed to find employment elsewhere if that was the case, or draw up my will, anyway..."

Judge away, Javier, Itzhak is going to drink the hell out of this cappuccino. So foamy! He smiles a sidelong smile at Ruiz, like he knows he's judging both the drink and the chatting, and like Itzhak is pleased to be judged. "Nice," he says appreciatively at Joe's gloves. "Mine are rainbow." He pulls them out of a pocket to show that they are, in fact, rainbow. He's still wearing his usual black ones, plus his knit cap, huddled into his coat like he's cold. In fact, he's cold. "Ehhhh somethin' like that," is his blithe answer to Joe...then he's giving Turner a very curious look indeed. "Local, huh?" He lifts the bowl-cup to sip, and has to tilt it carefully so he can both drink and not dunk his huge nose into it at the same time.

"Speaking of books," Scott offers to them all. "I should get back to mine. Need to get some of those academics done, I had just planned on going here to grab this." Holding up his order. "Have a good day, all of you." And he's heading for the door.

Javier doesn't reach for either of those mittened hands. No, he sips his coffee and simply gives Joe a look, like, do you think you could be any more obviously gay? "Sure as fuck does," is what comes out of his mouth, though, followed by a slurp of coffee. He continues to watch the tall blond for a beat longer, before catching that smile from Itzhak. And returning it, briefly. Shyly, almost, if anything about this man could be termed shy.

"Condolences," he tells Turner, quite seriously, when the younger man mentions being a local. "You consider moving to Seattle? Or you one of those people who, uh.." He gestures with his coffee cup. "Likes the small town life."

Joe gives Turner a thoughtful looking-over, before he finally turns to order some elaborate hot chocolate concoction that has the barista suppressing an incredulous look. Butterscotch and chocolate chips are involved. "I dunno," he says. "With a little training, maybe you could take her." Like librarian cage matches are really going to be a thing. But then, there was Ravn and his lobster fighting league.

Then he grins at Itz. "Of course they are," he agrees. He's finally pulling his own off, tucking them into his pocket. A wave for Scott, and then he favors Ruiz with a sunny grin. Yes, he's aware he's having a moment. "What luck, huh? I mean, I don't know that I've ever picked a piece of clothing just to match ink before...." He seats himself on the other side of Ruiz from Itzhak, before looking back to Turner. "What'd you say your name was?" Did Turner at all? "I'm Joe."

There's a wave to Scott, then Turner returns his attention to the others, though he does place an order for hot chocolate, as well... though his is much simpler, just an ordinary hot chocolate. "I thought about moving, but... I've got a lot of memories here." It's said in a way that seems to suggest memories might be all he has left.

"Turner Quinn." a slight smile to Joe, "Nice to meet you."

Itzhak, catching up on the social niceties a little, points at Joe to Turner. "That's Joe Cavanaugh." Sometimes he's accused of being the most aggro welcome wagon in town, and it's not untrue. "Christ, do I got a lot of memories here, and I only been here about a year and a half." No kidding, judging by his acidic accent, where everything sounds like a scathing observation or an insult or both. He shifts again in the chair like he can't get comfortable.

Well, it doesn't take an empath to spot the undertones in that comment about memories. Javier's brows furrow slightly as he watches the kid opposite him, and he proffers, low voiced, "Nice thing about memories, is you can make new ones. Somewhere else." Slurp. "So why librarian? I don't think I've seen you around there." He also doesn't look like the sort who hangs around libraries. Unless they're letting in tattoed up Mexicans who look like they just got out of a stint in the slammer.

"Please to meetcha, Turner," Joe says, leaning over to offer a long hand. Too lazy to get back up and be formal about it, it seems. "Yeah, that's me." The beat of silence and the look at Itzhak that follow that seem pointed, somehow. Like he's daring the mechanic to say something. "You're too young to have nothin' but," he observes, but his tone is more kind, when he looks back to Turner. "I know it's kinna cliche to tell someone your age that your whole life's ahead of you, but it's true. C'mon 'n sit with us, plenty'a room." Now he's getting up again, to return with another enormous mug of cocoa, piled high with whipped cream, and what must be the butterscotch and chocolate chips on top. Javier gets a defiant look, as he settles back down. Preparing for judgement.

"I like books, and I like helping people, and I'm good at research. It's a lot of fun, actually." he accepts Joe's hand. His are slim, long fingered, freckled... and well kept, with not a callous in sight. He's never lifted anything heavier than a book or done any hard labor. "Thank you, nice to meet you, as well." He smiles, moving to accept his hot chocolate, then back to join them. "Honestly, I like it here... and I already own my own home, so there's that. I can't imagine trying to sell Grams' house, or rent it out to strangers."

Itzhak narrows his eyes at Joe, like he just might say something. But he doesn't, instead drinking his coffee. "Jesus, how can you drink that, Cavanaugh." Joe's pile of sugar gets judged. He glances at Ruiz, then back at Turner, listening to him with a curious tilt to his head, pointing one ear just a little more than the other at him. "...huh," he says, in a musing sort of tone. And seems about to say or ask something else, then doesn't.

Turner's considered a moment or two for his reply, as if Javier's trying to decide whether something about him measures up or not. Eventually, a glance at his watch, and a frown. And he finishes off the remainder of his coffee before pitching the empty cup into the garbage nearby. "I've got to get back to the precinct," he tells the table at large. But probably mostly Joe and Itzhak. The former's drink gets a dubious glance. Then he starts to his feet.. and there is indeed a badge clipped to the belt of his snug jeans. And a big ol' gun holstered at his hip. Maybe he's not actually joking about the precinct, after all.

"See you two later, yeah?" Thump of a boot to Joe's chair, and knuckles to Itzhak's shoulder briefly as he eases his way out. "Encantada de conocerte," he tells the new guy gruffly.

"Like books m'self," Joe says, smiling a little. Another conspiratorial glance at Itz, like there's some silent daring contest going on. "I imagine it is." His handshake's firm, but it's not a dominance game. His palms and fingers are callused, though. Worn. "And I hear that. Gray Harbor's not as bad as Seattle, but there's a lot to be said for housing security."

Itzhak's question earns him a doe-eyed look. "Carefully and deliberately. You wanna try it? I know it's a little much. It's called a Hot Chocolate Glasgow." Javier's farewell gets a click of his tongue and a wink. "Sure," he says. "You know I got the weekly threesome in my Google calendar." He has to be joking.

"Y usted también, señor de la Vega." comes the quick and easy reply. Turner's accent is passable, that of someone who's making an effort to actually speak the language properly, though not entirely fluent, perhaps. He takes a sip of his hot chocolate, sighing happily as the heat radiates through him. The gun did get a second look, but when he sees the badge, he relaxes marginally.

"I can't imagine what the same sort of home would cost in a larger city. And besides, Gray Harbor has its charm. Like adorable mitten sellers." he removes one of the pairs of mittens from his coat pocket, smiling. "And my garden's here, too. I mean... it's winter, so it's just the indoor plants, now, but come spring..."

Itzhak hitches those busy eyebrows at Ruiz with a curl of a half-smile. "See ya. Yeah?" He watches him go--then tries not to snort coffee out his nose when Turner calls him señor followed up by Joe saying something about a threesome. He cough-laughs into his sleeve, tooootally not laughing but also laughing. Then he pops Joe one in the arm, knuckles out. "Asshole." Regaining his never-that-great composure, he looks at Turner, with that curiosity seething around in his hazel eyes. "It ain't so bad, sometimes," he says, his tone leading, like he's on the edge of arguing.

Hesitation at the reply he gets in return. Unexpected, perhaps? Nothing more is offered from the cop, though; he skims dark eyes over the younger man once more, then turns to go. Totally pretending he didn't hear that weekly threesome comment. It's raining, of course, so he gives his ballcap a little tug lower, and shoulders his way out.

"Yeah, anywhere on this coast, it'd be an arm and a leg," Joe agrees. He doesn't try to dive in, but spoons up a little of the whole cocoa and cream and butterscotch concoction. "That's the one thing I miss, not havin' a house. Space to garden. On the other hand, I don't haveta rake leaves or mow lawns...what d'you grow?"

Then Itz pops him one, and he grins back, unrepentant. "You love it," he tells him, blithely....even as he's watching Javier depart. The look in the blue eyes is enormously fond.

There's another of those small smiles from Turner at Itzhak, though it looks a bit worried, now. "Did I say something wrong?" he asks, voice soft. He either didn't catch the comment about threesomes or is pretending he didn't catch it... or he's extremely sheltered and just doesn't get it. It's hard to tell with him. He recovers, though, responding to Joe, "Last year was tomatoes and cucumbers, but mostly flowers. We've got a few old rose bushes Grams planted when she bought the house in the eighties."

Itzhak shakes his head, but that's definitely a smirk on his narrow expressive face. "Ya good, don't worry about it. You garden? You know August Roen? He runs the gardening center out on that road that goes by that cedar that was struck by lightning." Small town directions, aww yeah. Almost in the same breath, Itzhak adds, "You ever notice anything weird happen?"

"That's just him. He's all about the ridin' off into the sunset without a look back. You know, I've known that man for decades and he's never once said goodbye to me? Or bought me a drink." Joe nods solemnly, but he isn't complaining. "Sounds good. My mother grows roses and all kinds of flowers back East." Itz gets a look. "C'mon, he's got it, you c'n talk about Fight Club with him."

"I've met Mr. Roen, yes. Grams liked his center... what... do you mean by 'odd'?" his voice softens but rises in pitch slightly, and his free hand absently winds around the hem of his knit jumper, "Nothing weird ever happens in Gray Harbor, we're a small town." Yeah, there's no conviction, whatsoever, in that statement. He knows, he's just nervous to talk about it. If this kid were any more tightly wound he'd be a bedspring.

Itzhak trades that glance with Joe. "I know he's got it," he murmurs, like Turner is not sitting right there with them. He looks back at Turner. "I can hear it. I can always hear it." Tap tap on one ear, partially covered by his black knit cap.

"Sugar, I don't know who you think you're bullshittin', but....pull the other one, it has bells on," Joe's voice is dry, humorous, as he regards Turner over the rim of that ridiculous cup. "I don't know how you perceive it - Rosencrantz here hears it, he's a musician. I get it as either visual effects or synesthetic tones. But we know you know, etcetera." He sets the cup down, wipes off a dab of whipped cream with a swipe of a napkin.

"I don't... we shouldn't talk about it. Bad things happen when we talk about it." Turner's looking down at the table, now, neither at Joe or Itzhak, and his expression is blank, but his anxiety is definitely rising. "Grams told me not to talk about it..."

Itzhak's eyebrows tilt. He looks thoughtful. "Yeah, well, ya already in the shit, tateleh. I'd never say nothin' about a guy's Grams, but if she's gone, and you're here, well. Maybe you get to decide now." One hand turns palm-up in a flourish, long calloused fingers spread. Still wearing those fingerless gloves.

There's a shake of Joe's head, at that. "It's not the talkin' that brings on bad things," he says, and his voice is low. "Itz is right. Deep breaths, buddy. You made it this far, just admitting what you seen isn't gonna bring Them down on you...." He takes another sip, sighs, glances to the musician.

"I'm the weird thing. I make things happen. Sometimes bad things. I don't really mean to." he's still staring at the table, his jaw clenching, as if he's trying to stop the words, but the floodgate is open now, though he's still speaking very softly, as if afraid someone might hear. "I used to have really bad nightmares every night. I couldn't have anything fragile in my room or it'd break."

Itzhak listens to this with eyebrows drifting ever higher. He glances at Joe. Then he leans over the table at Turner, catching his gaze. His eyes are a complicated hazel, gray striated with ambers and greens. "Here's the secret," he tells him, almost a whisper. "We're all the weird things. We all make bad things happen."

That's when his own phone alert goes off, a classical guitar chord. He pats the table and gets up. "I'm out, guys. I'll see you around." That sounds like a promise, and Itzhak busses his cup and heads on out. He checks on the mitten-seller on the way, who's still out there, and he seems to be able to convince her to go home.

"You're a mover. I am, he is," Joe confirms. The sparkling good humor from earlier has gone, and now the long face is somber, thoughtful. "But he's right. The dreams may come from outside, but the power's in you."

Then Itz gets up, and he says, "I'll be by later." As if it were a matter of course. Then back to Turner, "He's a good one to talk to, for all he hasn't been here all that long. Hell, I ain't been here all that long, but I been around the block here a time or two...."

"My Grams knew about it. She called it..." he forms a 'C' shape with his left hand , in front of his face, then tilts it down at the wrist. "Um... queer. But like... weird, not Queer." he absently traces a rainbow shape with his thumb tucked into his palm, fingers spread slightly. He looks up, now, meeting Joe's eyes. "Her mother had it... I can help plants grow better, too. I didn't mean to run him off, I'm sorry."

Joe flicks a look at the door, shakes his head. "You didn't," he says. "There's not much in this world that could possibly run Itzhak Rosencrantz off. He's just gotta get home, take care of things."

Something about Grams's terminology makes him quirk a smile at that. "I mean, fair enough, plenty of those I know with the shine qualify as big Q queer, if that's how you wanna put it. I think I get what she meant. Yeah, you should talk to Roen, too. Plants are his bailiwick. How long your Grams been gone?"

Turner nods, though he doesn't look entirely convinced. "Six months, five days." not that he's counting. "The house is pretty lonely. I keep feeling like she's in the house somewhere, just out of sight. She was all the family I had left." he sighs, eyes bright, and takes a sip of his coffee to distract him from his feelings. "Well, I still have her cat, Juniper. She's good company."

Now is not the time to let him know that it's entirely possible that Grams is keeping an eye out for her grandbaby. "I'm sorry for your loss," he says, quietly. "It's hard, feelin' you got nobody. I know you don't wanna rent it out, but have you thought of maybe gettin' a housemate? Lots of folks your age'd be happy to share a house, could bring in some extra money..."

"Thank you... I've thought about it." he admits, "It'd probably be good, just to help cover property taxes and stuff. Or maybe getting a dog. Dogs take up space and are loud, and I don't have to worry about a dog throwing wild parties." he laughs, softly, and takes a sip of his cocoa. "With my luck, though, I'd get the only dog that throws wild parties."

"It's a good idea, in this town, to have human company," Joe's voice has an odd note to it. "Could have a dog, too. More the merrier. Got no pets myself, but I live aboard my boat half the time, and I never was one who much liked the idea of keepin' some poor critter confined with me."

He glances down into the dregs of his cup, sighs. "I should be gettin' on, too," he says. There's a dubious glance at the door, like he doesn't fancy the walk home. "But it was good to meet you, Turner. I'll look for you next time I drop by the library."

"It was nice meeting you, too, Joe. I'll probably be there." Turner smiles, suddenly glad to have etiquette to fall back on. His parents and/or grandmother raised someone with very good manners, at least.