Downtown
Towering skyscrapers make up the majority of buildings in Downtown Dallas. The area isn't entirely comprised of concrete jungle, as the historic West End isn't that far off, offering buildings that have been converted into trendy lofts or two-bedroom homes. The streets are generally busy here, both vehicular and pedestrian traffic as people make their way to and from the office. Despite the size of the downtown area, one can easily walk anywhere be it the grocery store, the pub, or a small restaurant.
Doing some shopping to fill up the fridge at home was at the top of London's to-do list today. After spending a good three hours in the store, fretting over the content in some of the items of food. In fact, even as she exits the store, several bags in hand, she still looks ponderous and concerned as she peers down at a ketchup bottle. The woman walks slowly, making sure that she doesn't slam into any of the people heading down the sidewalk in the opposite direction. It's close to 4PM, and the sun is still high in the sky, however the overcast clouds block the light out.
"Too much sugar…" the woman says out loud, her brows pulling together quickly as she stops near a bench where a bus stop is. She glances down the way again, as though considering how far it would be from here to her destination. Eventually, she decides to sit down on the bench and wait for the bus. With her trimmed nails, she scratches at her neck where a section of her flesh looks irritated, suggesting that she scrapes there quiet a bit out of habit.
4PM has barely begun to make a dent in Wit's daily schedule. Judging from the way that he looks, it's safe to assume that he's just woken up. His hair is in utter disarray and his eyes are squinted shut as he rubs sleep out of them. One of the cigarettes he purchased yesterday hangs from his lips, and he puffs at it as though it's light — despite the fact that it most certainly is not. He walks along the sidewalk, eyes to the ground. Wit pops up behind London just in time to hear her fretting about the sugar content of her foodstuffs. The voice gives him no pause, but just for fun he looks up. When he sees London, he gets his lighter out of his pocket and lights up his cigarette, puffing on it with almost maniacal glee. "What've we have here? Store girl. You could use more sugar in your diet, I think. Not round enough in the best areas." And then Wit is on the bench side her, staring her up and down unabashedly.
In the next moment, London has her Blackberry out to check her schedule. She looks tired already, and it's only four in the afternoon. Safe to assume that her day started hours and hours ago, at the crack of dawn. Scrolling through her to-do list, she checks groceries off with a simple press of a button, and then slips the device back into her pocket just as she hears Wit's footsteps. "A minute on the lips, forever on the hips," she recites, as though she's committed such a phrase to long-term memory. The woman straightens, taking on an up-right posture. "I'd rather have a flat chest than high cholesterol or diabetes, or obesity, or…" she stops right there, realizing that Wit probably doesn't give a damn. She eyes the cigarette in his mouth through narrowed, wary eyes. Then, she raises a hand and swiftly hits the butt of the stick, knocking it from Wit's mouth with a faster arm than most. "Not around me, please," she says with a frown as she reaches into her shopping bag, then pulls out one of the organic carrots she'd somehow gotten a hold of in the store. Using her fingers on Wit's mouth, she replaces the cigarette with the tiny, long carrot. "That's better."
There's nothing short of shock when Wit is suddenly puffing on a carrot rather than a cigarette. To his credit, he recovers quickly and swiftly takes a bite of the carrot. He resists any urges he might feel to do a very bad Bugs Bunny impression and just glances at London up and down once more. "You make it sound like if you eat one crisp or biscuit you're going to suddenly look like the Stay Puft marshmallow man and fall to the ground, grasping your chest and telling someone to call an ambulance." The very thought of this makes Wit laugh — abruptly cut short when he chokes on a piece of carrot. He clears his throat and coolly sits back a little bit, quirking a brow at London. "You know, if you exercise regularly, it won't be a problem. At least that's what I hear. Never tried it myself." There's a pause. "And do you often just slap men in the mouth? Kind of dangerous. I mean other people, not you. Just for clarification."
London still doesn't look pleased. She stares at Wit in consideration, as though she has half a mind to stick broccoli in his ear, and celery up his nose. That impulse is resisted, and she merely turns to face the street again, glancing one way then another to anticipate the arrival of her bus. "You never know," she says quietly, lips pressed into a hard line. "One minute you're alive and the next…" London trails off, her eyes turning somber. Their harshness returns once more when she hears Wit try to laugh. "I'd hate to see you in another fifteen years, Wit, when your teeth are yellow and you've got a nice beer belly," she huffs, scooting to the opposite side of the bench. "I often slap men who bug me. I can take care of myself if they react badly." Anxiously, she glances down at the time on her Blackberry as she begins to tap her foot rapidly. "Did you just wake up? You look like Major Bed-head."
"No need to worry, sweet cheeks. I prefer lager, and I don't plan on living fifteen years anyway." Wit winks as he takes another bite of his carrot. His eyes drift away from London long enough to look out over the crowd of people that walk down the street. "What if I did just wake up? Are you secretly my mother? Mum, is that you? Yes, I have clean underwear on." Wit rolls his eyes, though there's laughter in his voice. "It's not really fair that you know my name and I don't know yours. If you don't tell me, I may have to call you Martha after my mum. In the end that could prove to be awkward for the both of us," he points out, finishing off his carrot. The little green leaf at the top is discarded on the ground for the merry little squirrels to have. Wit observes London's sudden impatient or case of the jitterbugs or combination therefore of the two with a raised brow, lips pulled up into an amused smile.
"If I were your mother, you'd live a lot longer than you probably will right now," London tells the boy, still jittering up and down like she's having a hard time dealing with how long the bus is taking. Yet, her voice is calm despite her body language. "I'd cook for you, and you'd eat delicious, healthy food, be in at 12PM every night. I'd drive you to all the parties and I'd pick you up. If you wanted to drink, I'd say have a party at our house so I could moderate…" A control freak, through and through, even when speaking hypothetically. Her hand comes up, and she tilts her chin back so she can scratch at that same section of her neck where the red spot is. She flashes Wit a sideways glance, "Guess my name." Her hand jerks forward to catch the little green leaf, but she remembers that it's JUST a leaf. Already biodegradable. "Why would it be awkward? Martha actually suits me," London tells Wit, her shoulders shrugging.
The look that Wit gives London is nothing short of stark, stoic disbelief. "Wot?" He asks, before he starts to look as jittery as London does. "Even my real mother didn't do that, Martha. But then we don't really talk a lot these days." When London reaches forward to grab that leaf, Wit instead takes it and lifts it in front of his face, putting it over his nose like some sort of odd little half-mask. "I think it would be strange to have a party in front of you. You would probably only put celery sticks and hollandaise sauce out. And you would make us drink sparkling cider or summat." As for guessing London's name, Wit volunteers: "Rumpelstiltskin!" Clearly he expects a little gnome to unzip himself from the strange London outfit he wears and pop out, but no such luck. He is left looking mildly disappointed.
"Maybe you and Martha should start talking more, then. A mother is a terrible thing to waste," London says, while looking down at her hands in her lap as she fiddles with the ring on one of her fingers, pulling it off and then putting it on again. Her eyes turn somber again, telling of the neglect she's suffered from her own mother. Her mouth quirks off to the side, and then she reaches out to take the leaf off Wit's nose before handing him another carrot. Maybe he's hungry. "Besides, I'd let you drink actual alcohol. All the dancing you'd be doing would burn that off quickly. It's the drinking and driving that would bug me. And you'd be surprised at how good some of my recipes taste - I can make lots of finger food for you and your friends." The boy's guess makes her wrinkle her nose in distaste for the joke. Girl needs to get a sense of humour or something. "Eeengh! wrong. It's a city in England," she hints, allowing herself to sit back on the bench, though she still taps her foot impatiently.
"God, I don't know. Liverpool?" Wit asks in jest before asking, "London?" He considers her other words for a moment, turning back towards her and rolling his neck from side to side, letting the bones within pop and crack noisily. "The actual Martha doesn't care too much for me anyway, she's made that much clear. She ah, doesn't approve of my lifestyle." He shrugs his shoulders and lets out the briefest of shrugs while reaching to run his fingers through his hair, taming it the slightest bit. "I don't drink and drive. And I don't dance either. So we're at a bit of a compromise, I should think." Wit seems finally unable to sit down any longer and begins to pace in front of the bench, hands dug down into the pockets of his ripped and torn jeans.
At Wit's second guess, London finds the good humour in herself to actually laugh. Her smile, this time, is genuine, and because it lacks that sinister bitchiness behind it, is much prettier. "Liverpool," she says, still chortling softly as she scratches at her neck once again. The woman never really gives an answer as to what her name is - she leaves it up in the air purely for the fun of it. "Neither do I," she says to Wit, her brow lofting and quirking at him as she looks at him with a condescending air. "In my opinion, you need someone who will whip you right into shape. Some discipline," she says in a big breath, hands clapping together at the idea of it, smiling with an idea in her head. "I could turn you into a regular gentleman. You'd have girls hanging off you because of your sharply dressed, healthy and toned body. They'd swoon at you, with your intelligent opinions about politics, literature, and other academia. I'd teach you all this, of course. You'd be popular," she says to the boy, finally standing up and walking hastily down the sidewalk. "Just not quiet as popular as me," London adds on as she gestures for him to follow.
Now /this/ is interesting. At first Wit starts to protest before he follows in tow, a wide smile breaking onto his face. "You teach me how to be a gentleman? What do you think this is, Pygmalion? I'm not your Eliza Doolittle." Any condescending in London's tone is either deftly ignored, or flies right over Wit's head. "Who says I don't have intelligent opinions about politics, literature, or academia NOW?" He asks. "You've only just met and you've already judged me as some street punk. You never know. I could secretly be the heir to some fortune, Liverpool Martha. "Popularity contests…" Wit mutters underneath his breath, disdain unmistakable in his tone. He reaches for his pack of cigarettes in his pocket and simply takes one of the cancer sticks out, popping it into his mouth. He doesn't light it though, sighing.
"If you're a gentleman, then you certainly don't look right for the part. Call me Liverpool Martha, Henry Higgins, or what have you. In the very least, I can fix that look of yours for you. We'll run a comb through your hair, maybe wash it… You have great cheekbones," London Grace says with consideration, while glancing over her shoulder to the boy as she walks hastily down the sidewalk like she's on a mission. Power-walking. "We'll turn you into a real Jay Gatsby. Just you wait," London fantasizes out loud, putting on a wistful look. She hurries across the street, expecting Wit to follow her the entire way home. "Hey, mister!" she suddenly shouts, upon spotting Wit's unlit cigarette. Turning around, she jabs a finger at him, and puts on a very severe face. "You light that, and I'll take a carrot and shove it right up your ass. Don't think I won't, young man," she barks. Then, she turns on her heel and continues right on her way, checking to see if Wit follows every two seconds or so in paranoia.
The things that should annoy Wit seem largely to amuse him. Especially coming out of London's mouth. "Why do you assume my hair isn't washed? I didn't think it looked particularly greasy when I got out of bed. Despite whatever you may think about me, I take one shower if not more a day." It's said matter-of-factly and rationally — no defense in his voice. There's a slight pause. "You know, you're pretty when you genuinely smile like a real person and not like a shark circling a fat woman in a lifesaver, Higgins." His tone is soft and genuine as he says these words. He even looks at London perhaps for the first time like she's a real girl and not a cardboard cutout of a very bitchy Barbie doll — until she turns around and threatens to sodomize him with a vegetable. "Whoa! Calm down, I wasn't going to light it! I just have an oral fixation. And you're feisty, I like that. Usually I have to buy girls a few drinks or bottles before they're offering or threatening to shove things up my bum."
London disregards most of Wit's first comment. Rather than focus on the boy's facts, she busies herself with the idea of what she could make him. For someone who really has no life other than to butt into other people's lives, this is perfect, and also her way of attaching herself to people. At the boy's compliment, she stops to turn and look at him. For some reason she looks insulted rather than flattered, like she doesn't believe he meant it. "I would never eat a fat woman if I were a shark, Eliza. I'd swim after her so that she'd paddle herself to shore and burn some calories," London responds after a moment, letting another, sincere smile slip by. She's quick to replace it with her serious face. "Then get your fix with a toothpick or a piece of broccoli. No more cigarette-ing," she snaps to him, fanning herself with her hands in excitement as she carries her grocery bags. They round the corner, and before a half hour can go by, they're at the steps to London's flashy apartment. "Trust me, you wouldn't like it if I shoved something up your anything. And if you do what I tell you to do, maybe I might even be attracted to you, but other girls will come running from miles away anyhow."
Wit attempts to hold back laughter. He really does. But a peel of it escapes his lips as he listens to London first explain her diet plan for seafaring fatties, then tell him he would never want her to put anything anywhere on or in him. Begrudgingly he replaces his cigarette in his pocket, rolling his eyes. "Yes, Martha. Whatever you say, Liverpool Martha Higgins." Wit takes in a deep breath as he sees the exterior of the apartment building. "Nice digs, Liverpool. Now, just to prove a point… would you like me to carry your grocery bags?" He asks in a kindly and soft tone, his accent switching from less streetwise to more refined and stiff.
London shoots Wit a dark glare over her shoulder as she walks up the steps to her apartment building. There are very few numbers listed on the side of the wall, three of four, however there seem to be a lack of windows to match. At the very top floor is a large, expansive window that takes up an entire side. "… Very good," she says, while setting one of her bags down to rummage through her purse to find a key card. "Except you don't need to carry them up. Not today, but training starts next week," she says to the boy, while taking out a pen and paper as well. On the paper, she writes her nickname: Liverpool Martha Higgins, as well as her cell and phone number. "I just wanted you to walk with me," she admits, smiling devilishly at Wit as she inconveniences him. "Call me on Monday at approximately 11AM. I'll be free."
Trapped in the upscale part of town without anywhere to go — seemingly. Wit rightfully looks a little bit miffed when London admits her deception, scowling at her. "You don't know. I may have just wanted to walk with you. Maybe I worry about you, Liverpool. You're tough, but not as tough as you seem, I bet." He crosses his arms over his chest as he watches her. He takes the paper she offers, rolling his eyes when he sees the name she's written down. However, Wit doesn't let that stop him from smiling about it either. "Eleven…AM?" He asks as though he's unfamiliar with the concept of morning. "Fine. I don't want my bollocks ripped off and stuffed down my own throat, so Miss Priss gets her way." He mutters underneath his breath, sighing. "May I go now then?" He doesn't wait for much of a response before retreating — though he does stick around long enough to make sure London gets in the door alright.
London's already started to slide her key card into the locking device on the building's door when Wit pipes up again. "Either way, not you know how to get here, so I won't need to come pick you up on Monday," she says to the boy over her shoulder. She bends herself over to pick up her grocery bags again, using her foot to prop the glass door open. "Yes, eleven AM. Not too early, I hope," she says to him, narrowing her eyes at the boy. When she sees his reaction to the paper, London snickers out loud, mockingly. "I'll do more than that. You'd be lucky to have any kind of conceivably human-like form to you if you crossed me badly enough," she threatens, entirely serious, too, as she fishes a carrot out from her bag to chuck violently at Wit. She probably doesn't have anymore of those left, now. "Yes, you may go, Eliza. It was nice seeing you again."
