Coffee and a Chat (Robin)

[Emerson (DELETED 8699)]

Emerson liked how Robin spoke of Lincoln. Laughing, saying that yeah, he's Lincoln, indicating that the man was probably quite the character. Maybe he'd be good to work with and hang around. He was friends (or something like that, Robin hadn't quite explained how he knew him) with Robin, so that meant that he was probably an okay of a guy. And there could be some really good position for Emerson. She could figure out what she was good at and liked doing and incorporate that into her everyday life. She could work and make new friends and earn money while she was at it. It was like some far-off, alternate universe where everything worked out. And Emerson was smart enough to know that things didn't turn out the way people perceived them to. The word 'administration' alone was a bit intimidating to her. She wanted something small, something that didn't sound so grown up and wasn't strung with so much responsibility. She still wanted to have time to go to the park and go out to coffee with people and have days where she could lay around and do nothing. She could branch out later. Or never. Did it matter? She had all of eternity, and that was plenty of time. For now, in the moment, she needed quick cash and something to keep her occupied for a few hours at a time.

Emerson's mind was nothing less than spinning. Maybe she was overthinking things a bit too much.

"I haven't even looked for jobs yet," she explained, picking up a colored pencil to finish up her picture and calm her thoughts. In the reality of it, this was the first time she had ever considered getting a job. She'd thought about it plenty, but pushed the idea away because Prudence was looking out for her and she didn't think it would be necessary."I'll do some job hunting and if I have no luck, you can try with Lincoln." In translation, Emerson was going to find a small job at some shop or another before Robin could ask. Or she was going to lie about finding a job before Robin could ask. Whatever came first.

Emerson didn't want to talk about herself anymore. Not about her lack of memory or lack of a job, especially. "I know you work at Necropolis, but I think Prudence mentioned that you're a writer? How's that?" The brunette liked to sing, and sometimes she wanted to write songs. She was planning on getting herself a cute journal so she could write things down, like memories or dreams or grocery lists. Nothing huge, of course.

[Robin Little]

Robin nodded. It was a fair enough plan – Emerson was the keeper of her own fate and she could live her life the way she wanted. Robin wasn’t going to foist an unwanted job on her, and being that she lived inside her own head she could probably feel what was right and what wasn’t, even if she couldn’t remember her own skills.

While Emerson had gone back to her drawing, Robin’s coffee was brought to the table. The scent of it always set the synapses of Robin’s brain to firing. Surely the immortal body worked different to the mortal one and the caffeine really did nothing for him, but it was a mind over matter thing. He was so used to caffeine being a requirement that he still kept up the habit – and the scent of coffee still caused him so much glee. He immediately took a sip and barely contained the hum of satisfaction.

”How is being a writer? It’s….” Such a strange question. He’d never been asked what it was like being a writer. No one really took him seriously as a writer. He’d not published any fictional works yet. He was too much of a perfectionist and wanted to write a bestseller straight off the bat. Somewhere deep down he knew it was impossible, but dreamers could dream, right? So he just freelanced, mostly – articles in literature journals, philosophical ones, and reviews here in there. He shrugged.

”It’s not all that exciting but it works. I can set my own hours, do it in my free time just for a bit of extra cash. The freelance stuff, anyway. The actual writing writing is… well, kind of so slow that it’s come to a grinding halt. Y’know, a person struggles so hard to figure out the meaning of life when they have an expendable life to live, but when you’re handed immortality that kinda… goes out the window. Everything you thought you knew is changed and turned on its head and you’ve got to start figuring out that meaning all over again,” he said, rambling. He could do that, sometimes. It was his forte.

”What I mean to say is, it’s hard to write a book that means something when you’re still trying to find meaning,” he said, before taking another mouthful of coffee.

[Emerson (DELETED 8699)]

Emerson had asked about Robin's writing because she was genuinely interested. There were so many books in the world, but only so many authors were recognized. It must have been a tough area of work. Then again, it wasn't hard to find seven authors in a single magazine, so maybe it wasn't that tough at all. Nonetheless, she'd give him credit for it. Emerson was not a girl good with her words. Her speech was a mess if she spoke at all, and although the thought of writing songs seemed fun, she knew once a paper was laid out in front of her and a pen was held in her hand that her mind would be completely blank. It was tough. She had so much to say, but no good way of saying it. So she generally just shut up, until she figured that it was safe enough to let her words run wild.

Emerson hummed in response to his words. If only her rambles were like that. When the brunette rambled, she was nothing less than an absolute mess. Half the time she got so passionate or excited that her words would string altogether and she'd usually end up saying things she didn't completely think through. And it'd go on and on until her ears caught up with her mouth, or someone pointed it out. The latter would be more embarrassing, but she was prone to those kinds of things.

Robin had quickly moved to a serious topic. The meaning of life. Oh, if Emerson hadn't thought about it, what else was she thinking about? She had, in fact, landed herself in an unknown area, involved herself with unknown people, forgot everything about anything regarding herself and her past, and to top it all off, had become a vampire. The meaning of life - or her life, more specifically - was thought about on the daily. What the **** was she doing here? Why had the universe decided to completely leave her in the dust? And what was she going to do now? Wallowing away was looking promising, but she knew otherwise. She'd brush herself off, try to plant her feet in the ground, and keep going. Forget about the past, forget about who she was, and keep moving forward.

Or wallow away. The idea would always be on the backburner.

"That's some serious stuff. M'not much of a help, but I can wish you good luck. I'm sure you'll be able to write something really great - in ten years or a hundred." She shrugged her shoulders. Her picture was finished, then, and she tucked away her stray colored pencils into their box, in rainbow order. "So, if you write, you must read?" The coloring book was shut, and the box was placed neatly on top of it. Emerson took her mug and sipped at what was left of her drink. "I could always use book recommendations." Reading was a quiet activity. One that she enjoyed. She should have indulged in it more often over the past few months. Better late than never, though.

[Robin Little]

It looked as if Robin would not be getting a philosophical conversation from Emerson tonight. The meaning of life, and all that – he had to agree it was not everyone’s cup of tea. It wasn’t something he generally talked about, unless it came up naturally. Briefly, he wondered what Maddison would think. How would she react if he brought up such a heavy topic? Would she dismiss it like Emerson had, or would it anger her somehow? So many things seemed to anger Maddison, Robin sometimes didn’t know where to step.

”I read a bit,” he said, watching as the book and the pencils were pushed aside. He must have been deemed interesting enough. Or perhaps she had just grown comfortable enough. Either way, it was a good sign.

”You’ve been to the apartment, yeah? There’s a couple of bookshelves. I don’t keep all the books I buy. I mostly buy them second-hand and then sell them again, or give them away. They’re too heavy to shift. You can come have a look, borrow something. If you want,” he said. He kept only the books that meant a lot to him, those he could read one hundred times over and never get sick of. He leaned forward, elbows on the table and fingers all tangled up in each other. He wanted to ask what kind of stuff she liked, but would she even remember?

”Do you have an idea of what you might like? Have you watched any TV? Is there any kind of entertainment that appeals more to you?” he said. Though he wasn’t sure how helpful he’d be. He liked to read the classics, and the highbrow literary stuff. If Emerson were brushing off philosophical discussions, then she probably wasn’t in the mood for philosophical books, either. But Robin could do his best.

[Emerson (DELETED 8699)]

The girl tilted her head to one side. "A bit? Y'only read a bit?' Emerson wasn't sure if Robin's comment was meant to come off as sarcastic or not, but that was how she took it. How could she not? If someone wanted to be a writer, didn't they have to read a lot to realize that that was what they wanted to do? Unless she was getting the whole thing wrong. She probably was getting the whole thing wrong. Robin had a job - two, really - and Maddison. And with the mention of Lincoln King, the male must have had a decent collection of friends to hang out with, too. He probably didn't have much time to fit reading into his schedule. Emerson, on the other hand, had all the time in the world.

"That would be cool." She nodded her head. She hadn't ventured into a library or a bookstore just yet, but in a way, looking through someone else's collection would be the better route. At public selections, all different kinds of material were left out in the open, which included the good books, the okay ones, and the ones you couldn't even get past the first page of. Someone's personal picks would hopefully weed the last two options out. With being a writer, Emerson had a feeling that Robin was able to fo that. Also, you could learn a lot about someone based on what they liked to read. Emerson at least seemed to think so.

Three whole questions were set on the table for the girl, requiring her to serve up three answers. She racked her brain for them. Did she know what she liked? That was a strange question she thought she would never be asking herself. "Um." A hand came up to run through her hair. "Well, I don't watch much TV. If any at all. So, dunno." The activity never really interested her. It seemed unproductive. However, if someone else wanted to watch television, she would comply and sit with them because sitting with company was better than sitting alone. During her sleepover with Maddison, that was just what Emerson had done, and she had fallen asleep before she could even start watching the movie. She felt like watching television wasn't something she was allowed to do. Like someone would be disappointed in her if she wasted her time away like a couch potato.

"I like learning, though. About people and animals and... things that aren't people and animals." She laughed lightly at her inability to phrase her words better. "And stories. Like, if someone were to tell me something that happened to them before. That's not really reading, though. She paused. "If I were to read some stories, I'd probably like made up ones. Not fantasy, exactly, but..." A thought - memory? - crossed her mind. She liked to be read to. It didn't come to her as much of a shock, but it did make her sound more childish than she already looked. So she kept it quiet. "Myths, fables." She shrugged. It wasn't a lie. "Fairytales. But m'open to whatever."

[Robin Little]

Emerson was a special case. Robin was realising that more and more as the conversation continued. It was almost as if she were evading something – or maybe she just wasn’t so sure herself. All the different possibilities flitted through Robin’s head, different idea of different books. First just animal stories, and then fantasy, but then not fantasy. It might have been confusing to some, that Emerson would deny fantasy but then say she liked myth and fairy tales. Weren’t they all the same thing?

Except there was a book Robin had read once as part of an assignment he’d had to complete. It was called The Uses of Enchantment and it discussed all the ways in which fairy tales were useful for children and the development of their psyches. It was a way to learn without being slapped across the face; morals were absorbed subconsciously. They were written between the lines. They had been written and developed for a reason; myths and legends were the same kind of thing. There was no reason why he should disregard those kinds of stories just because they weren’t the kind that appealed to him.

”I’m sure we can hook you up with something,” he said, narrowing his eyes at nothing in particular as he thought about what he had on his shelf. Even if the things he didn’t have on his shelf, things that he thought would appeal that could be found at any bookshop. Or, if not found, they could be ordered. Robin was a fan of buying books. Real books. He never did buy into the whole kindle thing. There was something about holding a real book in his hands that could not be surpassed by technology.

”At first I thought Life of Pi but … I do have a collection of Grimm’s re-written by Philip Pullman,” he said. Now that she had him on the topic of books, Robin could not be stopped.

”You might not know who Philip Pullman is but he wrote this series called His Dark Materials. It’s like a fantasy series but he was really clever with it. He pulls in references from Dante, and it’s kind of anti-religion. But it’s got animals, too—“ he said, and then stopped. He was going to talk far too much and probably get way too technical for poor Emerson. And the last thing he wanted to do was put her off reading the books.

”I don’t know if I still have those at home but…” he glanced at his watch, then out the window. ”The book shop might still be open?” he said. Sometimes, he was just a little too eager.

[Emerson (DELETED 8699)]

Emerson struggled with speaking, and she knew it, too. She could come up with strings of beautiful sentences, fiery comebacks, and trails of her opinions to voice, but her mouth would run off on its own before she even had the time to translate her thoughts into speech. Because of this, often times her responses to questions or comments or the like weren’t as they were intended to be. She could mix things up, turn them inside out and upside down, and leave whoever in conversation with her, more often than not, nothing less than confused. It was her own fault, and she recognized it. A side effect of nervousness. A side effect of fear, and uncertainty. She was all of those emotions, messily rolled up into one, and it was hard on her. She didn’t know how to handle it, and if she herself couldn’t, how could she expect someone else to? There was a tugging in her chest that told her there had to have been someone out there, from her past, or awaiting her in the future, that could help. That could figure out where her mind was. Something like a fairytale where everything worked out happily ever after.

Until then, she clamped her mouth shut and listened. Robin was spitting out titles and authors and Emerson did her best to push away her insecurities and doubts to instead absorb his words. He had to have known what he was talking about, right? Since he was a writer? On that aspect of things, she trusted him. He could probably pull a book out that would suit her. And even if he couldn’t, even if the book ended up being tough at page three, at least he tried. It was the best anyone could ever do. And to show that she could try, she’d finish the book. Even if it wasn’t a good read.

A bookstore was mentioned, but it was late, wasn’t it? The sun was down, of course. Humans closed up shop early in the perspective of someone who slept through the day and came alive at night. Emerson didn’t find that very fair on her end, but humans needed sleep, so she made herself get over it. No use in running her mind over something so minor compared to the major crash and burn of her life. With a quick glance down, the girl was able to see the bottom of her mug and decided that they’d been there long enough. She would have mentioned leaving soon anyways. Well, probably. It was kind of a rude thing to do since they were in the middle of a conversation. She did have manners drilled into some memorable part of her brain.

“Yeah, if y’wanna.” An almost forgotten backpack was pulled from where it lay next to her on the booth, in which she tucked away her belongings. One of the straps was slipped onto her shoulder, and then the other. One strap, she knew, would result in poor posture, and she couldn’t have that. Pretty girls have pretty posture, don't they? Or something along those lines. “We don’t have to go, really, but since you’re offering...” She climbed out of her seat, tugged around at the hem of her sweater, and waited for Robin’s next move. Emerson was a follower, in this situation in particular, because she didn’t know where this bookstore was located. She was also a follower overall. Sometimes that made her feel weak, but she knew from no longer being human that physically, she was quite the opposite. If only she was strong enough to actually be able to bring herself to stand up for herself.

[Robin Little]

Robin wasn’t exactly a leader, per se. Nor was he a follower. He was somewhere in between, going where the wind took him, going with the flow of the river – whatever cliché one wanted to use. As soon as Emerson agreed, as soon as that bag was even halfway to her shoulders, Robin was standing. He had nothing with him but his wallet and his phone, which were neatly tucked into his pockets. Normally he had his beaten and worn old messenger bag with a book inside; with a pen and a notebook for random bouts of inspiration. Knowing that he would be meeting Emerson, however, he hadn’t brought these items with him – though he did have a flexible, pocket-sized notebook and short pencil which were also tucked into one of his pockets.

Robin’s pockets were generally lumpy, and a bit bulky.

Out on the street, Robin looked left and right, ascertaining where he was before he started to walk right – only to change his mind, and change direction. There was a very good possibility that he could get them lost, even if he did know this city back to front and back again. He would try his hardest not to get them lost. Hopefully the bookshop would still be open, otherwise this sudden change in plans would all be for naught.

”I’m pretty sure it’s open,” he said, glancing down at his watch.

”It’s one of those new hipster places, y’know? They’re open for the night owls. They have open mic nights for poetry slams and things. Pretty sure they sell wine and cheese and like… international beer on tap on rotation. It’s a shame about bookstores these days, that they have to have all this other stuff attached in order to survive,” he said. There were silences. Whenever there were silences, Robin sought to fill them. He had no issues with talking. Even if he made a fool of himself he just laughed and moved on.

”They sell second-hand books, too. If we don’t find Pullman we can browse. I’m sure we can find something else,” he said, nodding optimistically. He tried to slow his long strides so as not to outstep Emerson, his hands pushed into his over-full pockets. He bit the side of his tongue so that he would stop talking. He really did talk too much.

[Emerson (DELETED 8699)]

Emerson followed Robin, keeping a distance that she saw fit between the two of them - a little behind, a little to the left. Her hands didn't feel right in her pockets, so she switched them to loop her thumbs underneath her backpack straps, and then she dropped them by her sides, letting her fingertips brush against the material of her jeans with every swing of her arms. Without something to occupy herself with, Emerson was usually rather lost. When she walked on her own, her focus was only on going to her destination, not getting lost, and not getting into any kind of trouble. When she walked with someone else, her focus was everywhere - on going to the destination, which was unknown, on not getting lost, which really wasn't in her control, on not getting into any kind of trouble, and on not making anything awkward between herself and the taller male. She appreciated when he spiked up a conversation, which took some of the pressure off the awkwardness factor of it all.

The bookstore Robin described sounded nice enough. Emerson wasn't big on public speaking, but it would be nice to go and hear someone at an open mic. Poetry was nice. Kind of like music, like songs, which she loved. She wondered if the male opposite to her ever wrote any poetry. He didn't seem like the kind of guy to, but she couldn't make that assumption just after meeting him. And, with his blossoming relationship with Maddison, he could be inclined to write her a piece or two. It would be romantic. The other half of the bookstore's description, however, didn't pertain to her. Not exactly, at least. It did manage to spark something small - a snippet of a moment. There was a teasing voice in her ears, warm hands on her upper thighs, a deep murmur of Oh, would you like some cheese with that whine, baby? and the oh-so-familiar feel of heat on her cheeks, her own voice mumbling out a No, m'sorry. And then it was gone. She blinked once, twice, three times, and replied to Robin's comments instead.

"People think that they don't need books anymore. 'Cause of technology." The toe of her boot found a small pile of colorful leaves and stepped into it with a satisfying crunch. "But people seem to drink a lot. So it's smart. A shame, but smart." She shrugged her shoulders - as if to say, what do I know? - and continued to follow along. "If they have Halloween books, I wanna look. Not anything super spooky, but there's this one I think I know. About a girl and a cat and-" She scrunched her nose up a bit as she tried to remember it. "Buttons. I dunno. There was a song..." Emerson trailed off with a shake of her head, but let herself quietly hum the tune as she scuffed down the sidewalk. "Oh my twitchy, witchy girl..."

[Robin Little]

”Coraline?” he asked, though as soon as he said it he figured he must be wrong. He could just picture the Neil Gaiman book in his head, the girl on the front illustrated by Chris Riddell. Were there buttons? Was there even a cat? Why had he thought of that book, specifically? Now that he tried to remember the cover it remained just out of his reach, only the fierce expression the girl wore burned into his memory. Eventually, he shrugged.

”They’re usually pretty great at trying to find things. If you tell the staff exactly what you just told me, they’d probably be able to reach for the book in a second,” he said. Robin had often gone to that counter with equally vague requests – even vaguer. And they had always been very accommodating, finding what he needed. And if they didn’t have it on the shelf, they ordered if for him.

He was sure they had a Halloween display, too – books they deemed spooky, old and new, classic and modern, popular and quirky. They were good at that, too – they stocked books that went against the grain, books that were not mainstream. But they still catered to those customers, too. They stood on a divide, and they did it well.

In the end, it turned out that Robin knew where he was going. The city was a sprawling mess of random streets but he had lived there his whole life, and whether he thought he knew where he was going or not the way was etched into his subconsciousness. If he didn’t think about it too much, he would get them where they needed to be – and he knew that it wouldn’t take long. There, around the next corner and just up ahead, across the next block’s street, was the place they were looking for. The lights were on, and inside through the vast glass front windows, there were people inside.

”Success! Luck seems to oddly be on my side tonight,” he said, positively gleeful.