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Nowell was dressed comfortably, a light scarf draped excessively across his shoulders as he waited at the square for his oldest, closest friend. He had a show in London, and therefore he was NOT in Norway. It was nice to be an English-speaking country, but it was nowhere near as comfortable as France. Maybe he should have just made a day of it and asked Sachiko to meet him in Paris. They could have hit up the shopping scene or just relaxed in a hotel room, catching up while they did their usual. Since the weather was nice, there were a few small stands that had cropped up near the fountain, and therefore some two-person tables with umbrellas to provide some shade. Nowell perched himself underneath one and people watched. Horrendously fitting pants. T hat color is not suited for that hair... Goodness, she can't walk in heels, so she might as well be barefoot. Does ANYONE here have any sense of style? - His judgments kept him busy as he awaited her arrival. They were due a catchup, and he was beginning to feel the irritating twinges of hunger. His eyes roamed toward the stand with the sushi. Everything was so chic and modern and hip, and Nowell felt his eyebrows lower, his judgments melting. He unraveled his scarf from around his neck and positioned it to hang over one of his shoulders, the light grey material a bit transparent against his salmon colored shirt. He wondered if Sachiko would say anything about his bleached hair. His nose ring was in since he wasn't practicing or performing today. Though, contemporary dance companies were far less strange about his piercing decisions. |
The answer to your question, dearest Nowell, would be no. The majority of the British were pretty hopeless when it came to style, though Sachiko had found a few exceptions without lowering her standards. But perhaps he SHOULD have simply suggested France, since that was where she lived now too since the divorce was finalized. She did travel a fair bit back and forth for one shot or show rather frequently, so the need to keep renting her penthouse in London had remained. Which was perfectly fine with her as she had grown quite fond of it and the sense of entitlement she had. After all, she was paying for it out of some of the assets she had been awarded from the divorce. Her hair curly today, Sachiko's heels clicked against the pavement. Though this time she paid a bit more attention to where she was walking since a certain Unspeakable she knew was not on his lunch break and therefore would not be around here to rescue her and her shoe this time. She was just about to get into a proper huff, seeing as she could not spot her friend and former platonic lover ANYWHERE, when she finally picked him out thanks to the salmon color of his shirt. She knew virtually no one who could pull of that color with the same ease. "You load of dragon dung," she scoffed affectionately as she approached him. "You could have told me you went blonde and saved me some effort in trying to spot you!" She glided to his side and wrapped her arms around his shoulders while kissing both his cheeks three times over and then a peck on his lips because she COULD. |
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"Let us sit! Or - Oh!" He gestured at the stalls. "There's quite a few different options. I am thinking about a crepe. I know it's very basic, but I just want one. A sweet one. Dessert," he smiled as he pulled her chair out for her. "I feel as if I 'ave so much to tell you, my Sachiko," he flipped to English naturally, his light accent sounding almost musical in English. "And YOU so much to tell ME," he waggled a finger at her. Since the divorce, he knew Sachiko simply MUST get up to a lot. Much more than his married little self. He touched her hair curiously. "I do like your hair like this...so long...and curly..." |
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