2022-02-22 - Boomerang Glimmerers

It's mid-morning on yet another dreary winter's day in small town Washington State. Espresso Yourself is doing its usual roaring trade, Della-the-Day-Manager keeping a close watch over her team as they serve their customers, one by one.

All the tables are full right now, most with two or more locals enjoying their caffeine hits. Una's table is an exception to that: there's no-one but the redhead, who nurses her black coffee whilst scribbling in the notebook she has propped up between table-edge and lap. She's likely been here for a while, given the half-drunk coffee and the fact that she's dried out almost entirely, but she shows no signs of moving on (to-go cup or no).

Winter winds whip the door wider than originally intended, ushering in the latest guest of the coffee shop with a quick woosh of cold, wet air and a loud crack as the door extends its hinges. "Shit," he mutters under his breath, and grasps the door handle with more intention the second time, pulling it closed solidly after him. His dark eyes scour the dreary street outside before he lets go of the handle and pivots towards the counter.
Roman Scott, a new but old face to town, makes a stark impression in the well-lit coffee shop, dressed head to toe in black: black pants, black sweater, ankle-height black rain boots, a long black rain slicker and a thin black laptop case held by double handles. He pauses only long enough to gauge the interior of the business and slide his cell phone out of his pocket, but he offers the barista a flash of a polite smile as he proceeds the rest of the steps needed to stand in line. "One Americano," he tells her. "One Americano, coming up!" She tells him the price, which he quietly doles out in dollars and coins, before moving down the counter and out of the way of any other patrons who want to get in line.
His dark eyes sweep the room again, likely noting all of the full tables and trying to choose a backup plan to swiping a table for himself. He gaze eventually drops to the cell phone in his hand, dully staring at the black screen, until the barista calls out, "Americano!"
"Yep," he mutters, sliding his cell phone back in his back pocket and making sure to grab his hot coffee around the protective sleeve. Finally, the business of table selection is before him, and with no other option than to leave and face the miserable weather outside, his booted feet carry him with purpose towards the table Una sits.
Only stopping a foot or so behind the chair opposite Una's, Roman purposefully gestures with his coffee-cup-wielding hand just in case her attention is harder to grab. "Excuse me? I hate to be rude, but all of the other tables are full. Do you mind if I sit here?" Except, he is gesturing to the chair diagonal hers, where their immediate workspaces will not immediately intersect.

Una's dark eyes lift from her notebook, studying Roman for one second, and then a second, before she cracks a smile and gestures towards the seat. "You're lucky you didn't get Della," Della-the-day-manager, not Della-Una's-roommate, the two being distinct, though no doubt irrelevant to newcomers like Roman. "I have a friend who came in and ordered an Americano and has been getting anything-but ever since. Out of season pumpkin spice and all. Take a seat. New in town?"

Evidently the seat comes with a price, and that is conversation.

"Does Della have an aversion to Americanos?" is the curly-headed man's de facto question as he divests himself of his still-wet rain slicker and folds it over the spare chair. Roman sets his coffee on the table and gets to work unzipping his laptop bag, being conscientious of his table-mate so as not to get rain drops all over her things. "I'm much obliged for your hospitality." There is only a slight touch of wryness in his statement of appreciation, but he offers her a small smile as he sets down his bag and pulls out his chair to sit.

"New-ish," Roman admits, opening his laptop screen and hitting the start button; his laptop makes the pleasant whirring sound one associates with a computer starting up and his screen lights up. "I lived here many, many years ago, before college. It's been.." He glances up from his screen, rotating his shoulder joint idly as he thinks, "Fourteen years since I've been gone now." His eyes probe her face, as if looking for recognition. "I'm sorry, but I don't think we've met before." Is she the new one to town?

"I think she thinks the name is pretentious. Just order a damn black coffee like a normal person, is the impression I got." Una, also a drinker of plain black coffee, shakes her head: she's amused by the whole thing. "Mostly, though, I think she likes to fuck with Ravn."

The redhead leans back in her chair, drumming her fingertips idly upon the table as she considers Roman. "Welcome back, then. I'm Una, and as someone who has been in town for a couple of months now, I'm not sure if that means I count as newer, or older, than you. And to forestall the inevitable question," is it really that inevitable? She seems to think so, "My grandmother died and I inherited her house, and with nothing better to do, I moved on in. What brought you back?"

"Americano? Pretentious? In a coffee shop?" The sides of Roman's mouth curl despite himself, not hiding the humor behind those words and the judgment - for Della-the-Manager - in his dark eyes. "It could be for a small coffee shop in a small town like this." His fingers clack briefly on the keyboard, typing in characters for a login, and his eyes flick back to the screen, scrolling the webpage for the Santa Clara Herald.

Relinquishing his attention back to Una, he pulls his chair in a bit, forcing himself to sit up straighter and more squared with the table. "My condolences for your loss," he tells her honestly, his dark brows knitting together, "I came back for a similar reason. My grandmother hasn't been well. I came back to town to help take care of her. It's a temporary sort of thing. I might need to hire a caregiver eventually when I have to head back to work."

Una's easy shrug says it all, really: she's not the one making the decisions!

"I didn't actually know my grandmother, but-- thanks. Sorry to hear about yours. That's got to be hard. Coming back to a town like this, after time away, and for that kind of reason." The redhead studies Roman thoughtfully, making no attempt to hide her interest (which is, at least, friendly and not predatorial). "What kind of work do you do?" Beat. "Tell me to shut up if you need to actually get something done."

Roman listens, actively even, and nods slowly, occasionally throughout the woman's speech. "It's not easy," he admits, "seeing someone you looked up to when you were a kid, and they're not all there now." His shoulders lift and fall in a shrug, and he again briefly turns his attention to the laptop screen, finger easily flicking over the trackpad and moving the cursor.

"Don't worry about it," is his easy-going reply, laughter imbuing his voice. His eyes flick to hers overtop the laptop's topmost edge. "I own a bar in California. What about you? What kind of work do you do? Where did you move from?" Multitasking comes easy to him, as he rapid-fire shoots off those questions and re-settles a blank stare at the screen, then reaches out to grab his coffee cup.

A slow, reluctant nod answers Roman's admission, though it's clear from Una's expression that this isn't something she has much experience with. Empathy is still empathy, though, and the pull of her lips and the solemnity of her gaze makes comment on the situation, though her words remain absent.

She picks up her mug again, twisting it between pale hands before she answers; she smiles, seriousness absenting itself in lieu of warmer, easier sociality. "I'm an unemployed layabout, I'm afraid to admit; I'm living off my inheritance, and the rent money my roommates give me, at least until I find something new. Small towns, not necessarily so good for work, though since I worked in a thrift shop back in Seattle, it's not like my bar was set high."

The quirk of a brow proceeds his reply, a minute change in his expression that might be easy to miss were it not for the accompanying wryness of tone, “Unemployed layabouts with inheritance stoke the economy too.” It may well be a compliment or gesture of comfort to a stranger, but it is harder to tell when his expression does not betray his thoughts. “Does Gray Harbor have a thrift shop these days?” Roman asks, scrolling through the latest new story on his laptop – a tragic tale of an apartment complex gone up in flames over the weekend.

“Real estate is a good investment,” is a thought, perhaps unsolicited advice, however preoccupied the statement comes. “My grandmother has an attic full of items.”

That reply, compliment or comfort, makes Una laugh: an easy chuckle that comes accompanied with a quick enough nod. "There's that," she agrees. "No-- no thrift shop as such. Fancier antiques, but that's definitely a different beast altogether." She tilts her head to the side, unashamed in her study of Roman.

"My grandmother, too. I suppose that means I have an attic full of things, now. One of my roommates and I have started going through them, and there's a lot of fascinating stuff in there. Some... weird stuff, too. Old things sometimes have a certain... well, they hold on to history, I think."

The study has intensified, as if she's attempting to gauge the reaction. Does he think she's a crazy weirdo, or will he get what she's getting at, this town with all its weirdnesses?

“Antiques?” Roman’s voice carries the weight of curiosity, his eyes following suit as they shift from the screen to the woman across the table. He doesn’t indicate any shame or discomfort from her study, but meets her gaze with his own steady one. “Not oddities? I’d be much less surprised if that were the case,” he says, holding his gaze for a few seconds more – something enigmatic in it.

Her commentary on weird stuff deserves the ever-subtle lift of a brow, but the coffee cup that he suddenly raises to his mouth is hardly a coincidence, keeping him from giving an immediate response. “How have you seen finding Gray Harbor?” is another shift, this time in conversation and topic, though that could be another coincidence, as he re-sets his cup on the table settles back into his chair.

"Antiques and oddities, I imagine," allows Una. "This town attracts a lot of that." The corners of her mouth curve up perhaps suggestive of approval.

"It's not what I expected," is definitely true. She hesitates, taking a quick sip from her own coffee (which is cold; she makes a face and sets the mug back down again), buying herself some time. "I've made more connections in the past two months than I think I did in five years, back in Seattle. But-- this town has a way of bringing people together. Shared experiences. It must've been a strange place to grow up in."

Gray Harbor is that – an antiquity and an oddity – and no refusal will come from the tall, curly-haired man, only a knowing smile to match hers. He takes another long pull from his coffee cup, savoring the taste of warm liquid while it lasts; not quite so warm that it can dispel the lingering chill from his still-drying-clothes.

“It certainly has its charms,” remarks Roman, in slow cadence, purposefully slow. It’s as though he hesitates to full push into the realm of the subject they both skirt around, of the intricacies of the town and its undercurrent vibe. “I didn’t know any different when I was a kid, but moving away opened my eyes to how.. unusual the town is.” And he cuts it at that, giving but not fully, with hesitation still written in the lines of his face and the hesitancy of his tone.

This time, Una is a little more blunt. "There are... a few of us around. And we tend to stick together-- I mean, not everyone. But a fair number of us. Safety in numbers, when it comes to some of the more challenging parts of life here. I know you're not really new, as such, but if you want an introduction, I mean--"

This is a whole different kind of conversation: a new-old person, as it were. Una barrels on regardless, the faint pink flush the only indication that this is ever so slightly awkward. "It can get a bit much sometimes, that's all, when you're not around other people who understand. At least you don't need the Hotel California speech."

Roman gives further consideration to the redhead, listening with an open expression and ultimately giving into the idle movement of rolling his wrist. He glances down at his hand, before replying in a much quieter voice: “Like a club?” He looks up, his brow furrowed with.. something. “I don’t think that—” His voice breaks off and he releases tension of unknown origin, his shoulders visibly relaxing into a slight slump forward.

“Hotel California? You give a speech to newcomers?” This tidbit elicits a mild brow lift and smile, in light of the topic of choice. He reaches again for his coffee cup, but his hand stalls mid-grab and after pulling back, it falls into his lap. “I’d like to meet your..” He stares at her, mouth forming a shape, as if looking for her to fill in the blank, give them some kind of epithet. “..friends?”

Una's snort of laughter is, at least, a merry one. ""Club' makes it sound ridiculously sordid. No, nothing so... formal. Just that people who experience the same things tend to find it easier to interact with each other. No rationalisation, just... an acceptance of how the world actually is."

Yes, this is a ridiculous conversation to be having with a stranger in a public coffee shop. Una, though, seems quite at home with the concept. "And yes, there's a speech. The 'get out while you still can, but you probably can't because this place gets a hold on you' speech, none of which, I imagine, will be new to you."

Her coffee may be cold, but Una reaches for her mug again anyway. Maybe it's a comfort thing; something to hold on to. Maybe she's just echoing Roman at this point. "Give me your number," she prompts. "I'll introduce you 'round. And-- I promise!-- I mean that genuinely, and not in a pick-up kind of way."

“Does it make you feel less like you’re crazy?” is the man’s response, dark eyes taking in the woman and her snort-laughter. “I used to feel that way sometimes when I was young.” Though, what made him feel that way is something not yet spoken of, and he doesn’t elaborate; rather he lifts his coffee cup and takes another long sip.

“Not new,” sort of, “but the first time I’m hearing it. There’ve been some who escaped, though.. I haven’t been back, and I don’t keep up with socials.” Roman shrugs off his own indifference, but he has a chuckle for her promise, the sound welling deep in his chest and his amusement even reaches his eyes. “Yeah. I believe you. Do you want me to just put it in your phone?”

"I can't imagine having grown up with all of this. I was eighteen when I-- figured it out." Still young, though of course Una's not all that many years past that now. Less than ten, probably. "Coming here was... enlightening. And a relief. Because I wasn't crazy, and now I knew it for sure."

She grabs her phone from her pocket, unlocks it, and then slides it across the table towards Roman. "Go for it. I'm glad some people get out. I mean-- my mom did, I guess. But here I am, taking her place, as it were."

“You said before that this place gets a hold of you and doesn’t let go.” Roman turns his cup, rotating it clockwise with light fingers. “You think it calls to people too? It feels like it could. It could have called you here if you felt the.. it before.” The weirdness, calling out from the veil, pulling in people like a magnet, pulling in Una to this isolated town in the middle of no where.

His hand closes around the phone and pulls it the rest of the way, lifting it to tap in his telephone number and his full name, before passing it back across the table. “I guess my mom did too. She’s on the east coast now.”

Una drops her gaze from Roman to what he's doing with her phone, silent until she has the device back in her hand. "I'm pretty convinced it calls to people, yeah. I don't want to say lives are arranged to bring them here, but... a nudge, maybe?"

Now, finally, she glances back up again. "Does your mom... feel it?" Is she like them?

It is a curious thing, this town they live in, and these types of conversations to be had with strangers. Suddenly self-conscious, Roman rubs the back of his neck. “A nudge,” he says, perhaps speaking out loud thoughts bet kept in his head.

“My mom? If she does, she hasn’t talked to me about it. She doesn’t like to talk much about growing up here. She,” and he uses quotation fingers, “is focused on the present and positivity.” He smirks. “That California false positivity bullshit.”

Maybe Una follows that thought to its inevitable conclusion, because she blushes. "Not that your grandmother being unwell is the result of a nudge," she says, quickly, because that would be unfortunate and cruel (and entirely possible, in this town, but hush). "Or my grandmother being dead. But-- for other people." Yes. Other people.

Of his mom? "Oh-- one of those. Got it. I think mine just pretends things she doesn't like don't exist. The fact that I'm here is definitely one of those things." She lets her smile twitch a little, wry and rueful and amused. Moms. Just... moms.

Roman has some empathy for the woman across from him, and gives her a smile that is meant to be somewhat conciliatory. “No,” he responds, “not that kind of nudge, but I understand what you’re saying. Do you think we’ll ever find out the why and the what?” His gaze focuses on Una, perusing her face as he awaits her answer; his own tone and expression does not give much away in terms of what he actually things.. though, maybe he does not think anything at all.

“One of those,” he confirms, laughing a bit. “I think a lot of people in this town must do that. I would have had more.. conversations like this if they didn’t.”

"No," is pretty much immediate. "I'm ninety-nine percent certain we'll never find out any of the whys and why nots. Or if we do, they'll just open up more whys and why nots, and we'll end up with even more questions than we started with. But," with this, Una abruptly grins. "It's all really interesting. For me, anyway. It's the thing that was missing, you know? And the answers may still be missing, but at least I'm largely surrounded by people who have the same questions."

She adds, then: "Most of the people I end up talking to are from outside. I know there are locals who're interested in discussing it, but I think a lot of people... don't, too. They try and get out, or they stop talking. I'm not sure I really understand it, but I understand that people feel that that's the safe thing to do, so..."

“Or do we even want to,” Roman acknowledges, as the one who posed the original question about those whys and why nots. “Sometimes I question it and sometimes I hesitate to even try. What if it’s something I couldn’t accept? I.. hm. It feels stupid admitting it out loud.” He laughs nervously, half turning back to his laptop, though his gaze is dull when it moves to the screen that still reflects the latest news page.

“I guess that makes me one of the former,” of local people trying to get out. “You don’t feel weird talking about it?”

Una allows that with a short nod: do they even want to? Clearly the answer varies. It probably even varies for Una, depending on the moment.

"I did," she admits. "And then it gets easier, because it helps to know you're not the only person dealing with the complete wtf-ery. Like maybe you aren't actually insane, if you can say the ridiculous thing and have someone else acknowledge it. Some people have never even had the opportunity to acknowledge that they have... power at all. Like, their entire lives. And that sucks. So I'd rather talk about it, so maybe even one person feels a little less alone."