ArchivedLogs:Forget It

Forget It
Dramatis Personae Melinda, Jim
In Absentia	2013-01-31 A fistfull of nonapologies that no one gets hit with.
Location <NYC> Montagues - SoHo
Thursday nights at Montagues means that Melinda is out from behind the counter and is performing her assistant managerial duties in regards to the open mic night. While she sports the standard uniform of the food service staff (White on top, black on the bottom), she has opted for a skirt tonight instead of trousers. Her feet, of course, are decked out in sensible flats - and aren't her nylons just a size too big, making them look loose and obvious on her legs. She keeps tucking her hair behind her ear as she stares at the clipboard, her fingers tapping gently to the rhythm of the young goth woman on the electric cello. The song is recognizeable as a rock song, but the melody is slower and deeper, suited for her instrument - which she loops electronically to provide herself accompaniment. Despite her visual attention being elsewhere, Melinda is engrossed. It's a nice clear evening and the foot traffic on the street is heavy. Jim meanders through the door when it's held open by an older man /intending/ to admit his wife, "S'cuse me, thanks!" He tugs on the brim of his plaid fedora with a wolfish grin at the man, using his other hand to brush off the droplets beading up on his shoulder where an awning had dripped on him on the way in. He surveys the cafe while unbuttoning his coat, tossing a quick "Fsst!" - a quite whisper sound, not a whistle - at Melinda as he's pulled past her to the /counter/, ordering a coffee. Medium. Some dithering will soon after have him ordering a slice of pumpkin loaf. Melinda looks up suddenly from her clipboard and looks around, her senses jarred back to reality as Jim moves past. When she spies him at the counter, she draws in a deep breath and lets it go, clearing the displeasure as she moves up to the counter as well, smiling professionally when she arrives. She watches him dither, hands shifting behind her, clasping that clipboard, and rocking onto the balls of her feet while she examines the selection. "The lemon pound cake is pretty delicious as well," she recommends, probably unhelpfully. "I was lookin' at that," Jim admits, complicating his amused corner-crooked grin at catching Melinda in his peripherals with a slight /wince/, as though expecting her just as easily to whop him with something possibly floral. "You got a lotta..." he glances into the case, "... loaf." Grimace. "You're not gonna wail on me again, are you?" "No," Melinda's lips purse as Jim cringes, looking almost guilty. "But I'm not going to apologize either," no matter how her voice seems to give the opposite impression. "You could have just answere..." She exhales and straightens up. "Yes. We have several different yet tasty loaves. I believe that you will be happy with whatever you choose." She glances toward the musician up front then adds, "Shelby isn't here. She's scheduled for next week." "Coulda answered how, lady?" Jim doesn't exactly wheel on her, but his voice does harden from amiable-city to just city, "Y'know there's no /graceful/ way to be accused of being a pedo - sorry, kid." The poor cashier is kind of fixed-smiling, in the middle of handing over his coffee and loaf in a little wax paper baggie. He takes them and steps aside, nearer to where Melinda is, "You got any idea how insulting that is? I laugh it off as easy as the next guy but I'm not gonna be /happy about it." He takes a hard swig of his coffee, holding his little loaf baggy agains his chest, "I ain't here for the kid. Was just in the 'hood - /thanks/ for profiling me, though. Christ." "Profiling?" Melinda loses the sympathy in her tone. She steps back further to take the conversation away from the counter as to not disturb ordering customers. "You could have calmly replied rather than making yourself look like a guilty party and calling a girl who cannot defend herself a liar who we're all just supposed to /know/ is a liar." She stands tall, her spine stretched upward. She moves to put her hands on her hips, but shifts again to avoid the hardlining posture. "You're a P.I. for goodness sake. You should know how sleazy men in this city are and I didn't know you all that well then." "Yeah, 'cause you let /me/ defend /myself/." Jim sets his coffee on a table and goes fishing for loaf, cramming a chunk of sweet-glazed crust into the side of his cheek. "I used t'be calm about it. But she's running around telling /everybody/. And you're in /customer service/, for goodness sakes," he is matching Melinda tone for tone on this while brushing crumbs off his fingers, "/You/ should know how word of mouth can bruise a guy's god damn reputation. She was screaming about it in a whole fucking restaurant of people, and 'cause she's got this little-girl-in-the-big-city schtick down to an art, and I'm just Joe Blow in a cheap hat, you people," yeah, Melinda is one of /you/ people now, "are jumpin' on my case every time I walk through a door." "I didn't jump on your case," Melinda retorts huffily. "I offered you lemon pound cake." She glances away, taking a moment to draw a deep breath, letting the cello music draw her in again. She claps at the right moment, when the song ends and looks back at Jim. "Don't worry about your reputation with me. I know you didn't ... mean whatever she took and ran with." She's still annoyed. She's still standing. Her arms cross over her chest, the clipboard poking her awkwardly in the ribcage. "Forgive me for defending the girl first." "-/damn/, now I want lemon pound cake." Jim hisses in sudden distraction, looking down into the bag accusingly. "I don't know what you want from me. /I'm/ not gonna fucking apologize for getting pissed off that you called me a pedo." So they can agree to not... apologize. About it. When everyone begins to applaud, he occupies his hand with a cup of coffee, patting an open palm very lightly against it, to avoid spillage. He is fake grinning -- with teeth -- towards the stage while hissing, "And you hit me." Like it HURT. "You're a cantankerous jerk," Melinda retorts just loud enough to be heard over the applause and stopping suddenly as it dissipates and the musician starts another song. This one is not a cover, but several fans are already humming along. "Anyway, I don't want anything from you. It was just a bit of bad communication that wasn't handled very well." She rubs at the side of her nose. "Yeah, I know I hit you. Did you apologize to Hive when you hit him?" Eyebrows raise, whatever peace might have been working out seems to flee the room. "/Hey/," Jim doesn't say this aggressively - he does have a /finger/ lifted off his coffee cup to point at the woman, saying much milder in follow up, "I'm allowed to hit Hive. I know Hive. I don't know you, lady." Pause. He says lower, grumbled into his coffee, "Melinda." Slurp. Grimace. "Yeah? Well, I am sorry that we have not exchanged the proper amount of information in order to excuse my behavior. Next time I'll be sure to at least know someone's next of kin." Melinda shakes her head and remains standing there, arms crossed, a little fidgety. Eventually she puts down the board, which demonstrates that there really is only one artist tonight She's just ready for sign up slots for next week. Shelby is already written in at eight. "Besides, you're the one who made it personal by giving me flowers... and then taking them back." "You were hitting me with them!" Jim protests, rolling his shoulders in his own absolute discomfiture, "/With/ them. Me. It's not called 'taking them back' when you're using them as a /blunt force/ object, it's called /disarming/." And, shifting cup back and forth from hand to hand, he says the only thing he can come up with, /defensively/, "I'll get you some new ones." Melinda humphs and shakes her head. "Look, I was outraged and you said all the wrong things from a feminist point of view. I'm sorry." She scowls at the poor musician, who is lucky to not be able to see her. "Oh, /outraged/," Jim rolls up his eyes while popping them open wide, "You hear this chick? I'm the one gettin' falsely accused and /she's/ the one getting outraged. My heart bleeds for you, sweetheart, you must'a been under a lot of pressure." He was gesturing sarcastically, until his coffee sloshed over the rim - now he's trying to be snippy /while/ licking the dry-flaky back of his hand. "Oh forget it." Melinda grabs the clipboard off the table and steps away, heading back to the counter to order something to drink. "Y'know what?" In a rush, Jim drains the entirety of his coffee cup - it takes three rapid gulps before he slams down the cup onto the table. And slings the first lash to come to mind, "-- /You/ forget it." And, pulling his jacket up around his neck, he turns and cuts his demonstrative exit, going a hair quieter when he skirts the far back of the room to not interrupt the music, and then shoves his way out the door and into the winter evening. Loaf-in-pocket. Melinda receives her order from the counter and turns around to find Jim gone. Brows go up, face relaxes, brows come down. She heads over to the table with the abandoned mug and sits down, starting to sip from her own cup and listen to the music. Come the next morning, a bouquet of orange mums will arrive for Melinda. Whether she's on shift or not.