ArchivedLogs:Mars and Venus

Mars and Venus
Dramatis Personae Lucien, Remy
In Absentia	2012-12-23 '
Location <NYC> Busboys and Poets - East Harlem
A quiet, artsy spot nestled away on a side street in East Harlem, Busboys and Poets combines cafe and bookstore in a way a Starbucks tacked on to a Barnes & Noble could never achieve. The food is a solid, multi-national cuisine menu that caters to all kinds of dietary choices, and its fair-trade tea menu is extensive. Its weekend brunch tends to draw a large crowd, but there is ample enough seating both at tables and on its many comfortable armchairs and couches that at other times of the week there is never a wait. The walls are adorned with the work of local artists, and tucked in among and alongside the couches are rows upon rows of books, with a definite slant towards the political and the bohemian. Sunday morning is a busy time in this cafe, the brunch crowd packed and the room bustling. Conversation flows liberal and hectic, the servers duck and dodge between tables with practiced efficiency, utensils clatter against plates and the kitchen door swings open and closed near ceaselessly. In all of this rush and clamour Lucien makes a contrasting island of quiet, eschewing a brunch table to tuck himself into the corner of a couch near the books, a paperback (/L'homme rapaille/, says the title, 'Gaston Miron' underneath) held carefully in one hand and a cup of something steaming and smokey-scented nestled on a saucer at the table in front of him. There is a plate there, too, although in the midst of the general feast of eggs and waffles and crepes and potatoes he has nothing more extravagant than a flaky croissant, one tip of it removed. He is nibbling on it, slow and almost thoughtless, his eyes focused down on the page. The sound of a speed bike being parked outside barely draws anyones attention, though the man who parks it and comes inside does get a few looks. He too orders something very light, a french vanilla coffee and two croissant with raspberry preserves, then glances arround for a place to sit. Having limited options he heads in the direction of the other man and asks "Min' if Ah join yah," in a accent that sounds neither propperly french or Southern, but traced with both. Lucien's gaze tips up from his book, vivid green eyes lingering on the other man for a long moment. Appraising, thoughtful, apparently giving serious /consideration/ to a question that is generally a polite formality, he flicks a glance around the room for a moment before settling it back on Remy. His hand tips upwards in a quietly acceding gesture. "It does not seem there are a lot of options," he answers, quietly, his soft baritone coloured with a distinctively francophone accent of his own. "Sometimes I forget what day it is. Sundays here are always --" His lips press together, and he does not finish this sentence but instead just flicks neatly-manicured fingers in a lazy sweep towards the hectic room at large. "Chaotic?" the man supplies and takes the seat with a smile, He is still wearing dark sunglasses, despite being now indoors. He tears s small cornor from a croissant, dips it in the fruit and bites gently, glancing at the cover of the man's book he asks casually, "Yah speak French?" "Chaotic," Lucien agrees, with a faint downward tilt of his head and a faint upward tilt of his lips. He takes another small bite of croissant, glancing down to the book he is reading. "No," he says, mildly, "I have just found people to be very enamoured of the idea of a man who speaks French. I carry this around so that people will think I am urbane." The cajun grins a little bit at that, "Fair 'nough, but it wort' learning non, women fall all ovah a man who c'n speak French ta dem. Don' mattah what yah say, yah still send chills down dare spines." He grins a bit and offers his hand "Remy LeBeau." The looks Lucien gives Remy as he speaks is long and difficult to read, his green eyes and quietly composed features betraying little past a certain mild curiosity. "Do they?" he seems thoughtfully interested to know. "I do always appreciate knowing more about the art of --" He has a brief hesitation, here, closing his book with a slim tassled bookmark tucked into its pages and leaning forward to claim his cup. "Wooing." The hand that was occupied holding his page is now free to extend to Remy, taking the other man's hand; with his touch comes a subtle warmth, low-grade enough to be easily overlooked, a faint trickle of easy contentment that matches the quick curl of his smile. "Lucien. Tessier." Remy grins a little bit and tilts his head watching, "It ain' dat 'ard." he says with a bit of a shrug. "It's about eighty percen' not caring if yah fail, ten percen' knowin' 'ow dey t'ink, an' ten percen' somet'ing dat make yah stan' out." "How do people think?" Lucien wants to know, shifting slightly in his seat to both nestle more comfortably back into the couch and to angle his posture slightly towards Remy. Watching, as well, head tilted slightly to one side. "What makes you stand out? I imagine that could go spectacularly well or spectacularly badly. Depending." Remy chuckles a bit, "What make me stand out? Well 'ere it's de fac' Ah'm Cajun, non? Ah've got de French t'ing, de accent dat women seem ta like, an' of course a bike dat can get up inta de triple digits in less den twenty seconds." he grins and sips his coffee. "An' Ah didn' say people, Ah was talkin' 'bout women, non? "Yes, I imagine that speed is quite useful in New York City's congestion," Lucien remarks thoughtfully. His eyes still focus on Remy, brightly curious over the rim of his cup as he sips again, slowly. His eyebrows creep upwards, just slightly. "Are women not people? I have been mistaken all this while." Remy grins a little bit, "Lets just say dat no two creatures as vastly different as men an' women shoul' evah be considered de same species in Remy's book." he says in an amused tone. "Women t'ink so incredibly different dat it's not even funny." "I am glad I do not read from your book, then," Lucien murmurs, setting his cup back down and shifting the plate with the croissant into his lap. "I have found myself well-served by treating people as people. Women seem to appreciate it as much as anyone else would." Remy chuckles a little, "Perhaps Ah mispoke dare, but de trut' is a woman not want ta be seen as /jus'/ a person. She wan' ta be seen as de /only/ creature in yah world. An a man dat c'n make 'er feel dat way..." he shrugs. Lucien considers this a long moment, perhaps thoughtful or perhaps just briefly distracted by tearing off another mouthful of croissant and eating it. "I will have to make note," he says eventually. "I have never considered the strategy of preemptive stereotyping when it comes to my interpersonal interactions, but I am always open to new things." Remy chuckles a bit more, dipping more of his own croissant in jelly and taking a slow bite, "It work bettah in practice den explained as a t'ery exercize." he says with a bit of a shrug. "In practice," Lucien answers, apparently giving careful consideration to his plate before taking his next bite, "I have found gender to play not much practical role in the way people think. Certainly a /trifling/ difference compared to far more relevant factors like culture and experience. I have, though," his tone here is casual-light, his posture languid-draped against the couch as he rests fingertips on the edge of his plate, "found how other people treat you becaues of your gender to be a good deal /more/ telling. About them." The other shakes his head rather emphatically at this point. "Non, dare yah got it backwards." he says with a smile, "What it boils down ta is a question of de way de two minds work. An' waht it really comes down to at it's basis is de question of /why/? "I am not sure that you contradicted me, just there." Lucien finishes the last of his croissaint, carefully brushing fingertips together to dust a few stray flaky crumbs off his skin. "It is a question of /why/, certainly. You just seem to look in the wrong place for explanation. Gender has less to do with /why/ than society does." Remy shakes his head, "Non, not de way Ah mean it. Let me give yah an example. Let say dat me an' yah are bes' friends, known each ot'er foh years." he sips his coffee and then says, "Let's also say dat dat is yah favorite shirt. yha wear it all de time. So taday, foh de first time Ah say 'Ey Lucien, dat's a nice shirt, when yah buy dat? Now as a man, yah t'ought process of dese events likely boil down ta, de facts, Ah may not be overly observent, an' Ah've paid yah a compliment. Correct?" Lucien's glance at Remy is long and, perhaps, mildly bemused. "As a man," he echoes, slow and testing these words. "I really have no idea what part my chromosomes play in how I will react to such a statement. I know women who pay little attention to details of dress, and men who pay a great deal." Remy headshakes, not willing to let go of the point, "Same scenerio, substitute man number two for a girlfriend whatever, dat is where de rule of Why comes in. "Why he make dat observation, Because he not paying attention. Why he not paying attention? Because he is distracted by somet'ing or someone else to notice mah favorite shirt. "Why he distracted by someone else Because he not love me any more." Remy smirks, "Next t'ing yah know while yah t'ink yah complimenting 'er top, she 'as decided yah a cheating bastard and is moving in wit' 'er mamma." Lucien sips his tea while he listens to this, slow and steady to drain the cup. "In the world I live in, women are just as nuanced as any other gender in the ways they might react to -- oh, anything," he decides, ultimately, leaning over to pick up his saucer and rest it and the cup on top of his empty plate. "I am quite glad that in all my relations with them, none have been such caricatures. I do hope," he says, with all evident sincerity, as he tucks his book into a pocket and rises from his seat, "that in future you find some healthy relationships. Your experiences seem to have been plucked straight from romantic comedies." Remy chuckles a bit, "If all de world is a stage mon ami, an' yah and I are just players den Ah'd rat'er find dat Ah was in any comedy, perticularly a romantic one. Wouldn' yah?" he asks sipping his own coffee as the man makes to depart. "The world is not a stage, unfortunately," Lucien replies with an upward tip of his hand. "And the people in it do not fit so neatly into scripted roles." This serves as farewell, it seems, because the other man is slipping away, to deposit his used dishes in a bin and head back out into the cold winter day.