International House of Pancakes
The International House of Pancakes somewhat maintains that small diner feel, even though it is a much larger franchise. Beige walls are decorated with pictures of various menu items, and are lined with four-person booths. The center aisle is also comprised of booths, with a short privacy wall between them. The kitchen is mostly hidden from view, but the smell of cooking food continually wafts through the restaurant.
It's Wednesday night, and not much to do right now. Since the skating rink going in, isn't ready to be opened yet. Wayne Evans, the owner, doesn't feel like cooking tonight, so he decided to go out to dinner. IHOP sounded good, so here he is, at a booth by himself, looking over the menu. A cup of steaming coffee in front of him then he occasionally sips from.
While Wayne sips at his coffee, Cabot - seated a row over and a few tables ahead - is flipping through a magazine, though he now glances up and over at the booth adjacent to Wayne's, where a trio of coeds are waiting for their pancakes. Catching one of them eyeballing him, he flashes her a wink, and Wayne is thusly forced to suffer the sound of the other two girls chattering inanely at the recipient of the solo-dining magazine-reading dude's attention.
Wayne glances up but other then catching a little of it he pays little attention. Though there is an odd scent in the room, he pays it little mind. Even if it is one he doesn't know. His parents taught him about most of 'his' world, but as far as they know, there were no vampires in Santa Fe. He'd heard about them since he's been here, but not really knew who or put two and two together yet. Soon he makes up his mind though and orders just some plain pancakes, sausages and more coffee. Tonight his hair is pulledback into a long braid, will make it easier to eat and not get syrup in his hair that way.
Having worked half his way through the copy of Rolling Stone on the table in front of him by the time Wayne decides on pancakes, Cabot is interrupted by the chipper IHOP waitress making her way along the row of booths in her service. The following may or may not be audible to Wayne, depending on the acuity of his hearing and the level of attention paid:
Waitress: "You sure I can't get you a menu, hon?"
Cabot: "No, ma'am. I'll tell you what you can get me, though."
Waitress: "What's that, then?"
Cabot: "Don't suppose you've got any bottles of Blood kickin' around back there with the maple syrup."
Waitress: "True Blood?"
Cabot: "Ding, ding. I like mine A Positive."
Waitress: "I'll take a look, sir."
Cabot watches her dash away, perhaps unsettled by his forthrightness.
Wayne does indeed hear, but well until he knows what the pack thinks of them or much of anything, he's not here to Judge, he's hear to eat. The only thing that ruffled his fur, even a little was the way Cabot was flirting with the females. But not his buisness, so he again, says nothing. Just probs his feet on the bench across from him and digs into a pocket and pulls a small notebook and a pen out of his pocket. Checking over a few things. In preperation for his skating rink.
A short while later, though probably longer than Cabot would like, the waitress comes out with a bottle of True Blood and puts it down on in front of him. She says, apologetically, "I'm real sorry, but we don't have any A Positive in stock." Glancing up from Rolling Stone, he rotates the bottle to view the label. He says, "O Neg. Always a crowd pleaser. This'll do." She smiles with relief and darts off, just in time for the girls at that table near Wayne's to spot the bottle and spark up a whole new wave of their chattering. As if aware of the very nature of their conversation, he tilts the bottle in their direction by way of toast before popping the seal and taking a swig.
Wayne's food arrives soon after. He and the waitress grabbing for the coffee cup at the same time. He for a sip, she to refill it. 'You're a bit warm. You alright sir?" A raised brow, but he nods, "I'm fine, thanks." Trying to pass it off as nothing with a smile for her as well. She refills his cup, then wanders off, seming satisfied. Once she's gone, of course the first thing he goes for is a sausage. Meat, wolfie, go figure right? Though, other then the vampire, no one in the resteraunt knows what he is. And unless the vampire is paying attention to scents, he might not realize either. Though, it would probably be hard to miss.
Eventually Cabot decides the girls are now ripe for the proverbial picking, and so he gets up from his table and crosses the way to theirs, their booth being the one bordering Wayne's, bottle of Blood in hand. "Evening, ladies," he says to the lot of them, wolfish smile on his face. Not werewolfish, of course. Regular wolfish. After talking them up for a few minutes, he hands his cell phone to the girl he'd winked at earlier, and she punches her number in as requested. Glancing at the screen, he thanks her and slides the phone back into his pocket, cooly pledging to "give her a ring-a-ding." While there, he glances over Wayne's way. The scent is hard to miss, and he's not really the missing-scents sort. "How are the flapjacks, bud?" he asks, turning away from the girls' table and towards the wolf's
Wayne is about to dig into the panckakes next, once he's laced them with butter and syrup. "Ahh, not sure yet.." then stuffs the first bite in, savoring it a moment.. chews and swallows, then shrugs, "Not bad… actually, dad made the best, but not too bad. Uh, how about your TrueBlood?" he asks with a grin, trying to be somewhat sociable now. He nods to the ladies as well, but only briefly. Eating more of the pancakes as he awaits his answer.
Watching Wayne go through the tedious process of mopping up syrup with forked triangles of pancake, Cabot takes a swig of his drink. When asked about it, he looks at the bottle in his fist pensively. "Well, it's got a complex bouquet and a long nose, but not half bad otherwise." In fairness, True Blood is the closest he gets to fine wines, and the wise-assed grin he wears is testiment to the fact that he thinks he's hilarious. "Your daddy makes you pancakes? I reckon that's the sweetest thing I've heard all day."
Wayne chuckles "Sounds interesting." he comments.. Then the tease, he just laughs, "Not since I was a kid, but he used to. I've not had any of his pancakes in a good six years or more." Reaching for his coffee cup and a sip. Mostly minding his food, but he does keep up with the conversation as well. "I tend to make my own now, but with things such a mess right now, better to not make more of a mess at my place."
"Six years. Long time." Yeah, it's dry, but what do you expect? He's a vamper and all. Cabot has by now managed to polish off more than half the bottle of Blood and realizes he's yet to even introduce himself. "I'm Cabot, anyway. I won't keep you from your stack. Just figured I'd may as well say hello and get us nice and acquainted."
Wayne nods, "Yeah a bit, but college and all so far away doesn't exactly make it easy to come home for a visit and now I'm in Dallas instead." being a man, with real ambitions, well, as man as a wolfie can be anyway. He shrugs, "Eh, doesn't hurt to meet new faces.. make a friend here and there. No bother really at all." as he's been eating and sipping his coffee the whole time. "Pleasure Cabot, I'm Wayne." his human / english name anyway. Good enough for the vamp.
"Wayne. I'll be sure and remember that. See you around." With that, Cabot tips his hat and heads by his table to leave a few crumpled bills on the table for the waitress before he makes his way out the door, checking his phone for messages like so many urban vampires in this modern age.
