Kione light up another cigarette. Considering how many cigarette butts were piled up in a neat little mountain in the ashtray on the polished counter, he’s been ‘lighting up another cigarette’ all night. It was as though he had his own personal cloud of smoke billowing around him in the room full of smoke. Kione had been chain smoking for eight days now, since the day his dearly beloved had died.

Kione wasn’t actually at the bar to drink, though this was his fifth shot of whiskey. He was here because he couldn’t stand watching his once-was-soon-to-be mother-in-law sobbing in the living room. There was nothing he could do to ease her pain and her pain only gave him twice his own pain. He’d gotten to a drowning point, one in which he wasn’t so sure he could pull himself out of. He fled to the bar without a second thought.

His hair was feeling neglected, though he’d never done much with it before in the first place. The shoulder length blond strands stuck out where ever they pleased and lay flat in places they probably would have looked better otherwise. His clothes were simple, a pair of blue jeans, the cuffs flipped up once, a fitted white tee that clung to his narrow frame, and a pair of black handmade leather sandals from The Kino Factory. His over all look strongly resembled a young fisherman or a beach boy.

Before him on the bar top was a section of newspaper, slivers circled in black.

"You're drowning your sorrows in the wrong distraction, Mr. Spade." Her voice isn't quite a whisper-- perhaps more of a low hum-- but her glossy red lips are close enough to his ear that it probably should be.

Had she been there a moment ago? It was more rational to suppose she walked quietly than that she'd appeared out of thin air. Or maybe someone was missing the opportunity to say 'did it hurt when you fell from heaven, baby?' and really mean it.

Amor was a flashy creature, long legs in red stilettos, crazy curves in a red silk dress that stuck close to the swell of her breasts, hugged her wasp waist and then ballooned out over her hips and swirled around her knees, like something from a 1940's pin-up. Her eyes were dilated-- maybe she'd been indulging a little-- and her dark hair was tumbling in a glossy mess over her shoulders. She looked a little like a Carmen Sandiego who'd left her hat in the car, if you were the sort of person who thought like that.

Her smile, though, was just purely friendly. Nothing wicked or suggestive about it. "It would break Molly's heart, to see you ruining your health like this," she adds, with just a hint of motherly disapproval that totally clashes with her outfit.

He is that sort of person. Kione is nearing thirty but he’s never left thirteen. Comic books are very much his style. And he did think that she looked very much like the living embodiment of Carmen Sandiego.

He hadn’t heard her approach but then, he hadn’t really heard any of the other bar noise for the past hour. Kione was drifting into his own place, a quite place that only he and Molly shared, only he and Molly existed. Molly didn’t exist anymore, it’s what the woman’s voice reminded him just by simply speaking.

That she knew his name and he did not recognize her didn’t register or merit surprise at all. He’s a mechanic, he owns a garage, he works on many distressed young ladies cars while the twirl their hair or smooth their clothes over their hips. She could match any number of said young damsels in distress. That she knew Molly’s name, and that Molly hated it when he smoked, did register surprise and he turned to her finally, turning the stool until his body faced her.

“Sorry. Do I know you?” he asked. Kione isn’t one to pretend he remembers you when he doesn’t. He was going through his list of faces, the list that was Molly’s old friends. He couldn’t place her on that list…but maybe he was just missing her. He wanted to say: And just what distractions should I be drowning my sorrows in? in a biting tone but Kione hasn't got the heart to be mean just because he's suffering.

The cigarette, even though spoken of, lay forgotten between his first and middle finger, a stream of smoke rising to contribute to his own little cloud of smoke.



OOC: sorry it took so long. I had to drive back up here to VA and that drive really wipes you out when you go it alone.

((Don't worry about it!))

"Molly knew me," she corrects, and technically this is true: they both knew her, although not, perhaps, so directly. But Amor is largely driven by benevolent impulses, so here she is.

In fact, she reaches forward and plucks his cigarette from his fingers, grinding it out. She does this casually, with no indication that she considers it a particularly unusual or bold action to take towards a stranger. She doesn't even go out of her way to avoid brushing hands with him; hers is very warm. This incredible ease of manner makes the action even more presumptuous than it would otherwise be.

She smoothes her skirt, so that when she takes an uninvited seat next to him it doesn't hike up and show her glorious thighs. There's a time and a place, really; even Amor knows that. The time is fast approaching, but no-- not quite yet.

Nevertheless, there's something in her bearing, something a little bit no-nonsense, that suggests that she isn't tiptoeing around his sacred grief. "I'm sorry for her loss." Her voice is sincere, and polite, but there is also a tone of finality that makes it rather clear that that's all she has to say about it; she isn't going to wallow with him all night, discussing his dead love.

"What are you going to do now? Do you have a job?" Perhaps she's being very nosy, but she doesn't seem to think so.

The bartender brings her a drink-- something amber and lovely in a small crystal glass; port, maybe-- without her apparently having asked. When she takes a sip, her incredibly glossy-wet lipstick doesn't leave a smudge around the rim.

Molly knew me. What an odd way to say that. Kione is painfully truthful, one might say almost innocently truthful, and he frowns, drawing together his blonde eyebrows. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice softer as if it would lesson the impact of his statement by speaking so, “but I don’t remember you. What was your name?” There were two possibilities, the first being that he’d met her and didn’t remember her at all. The second was that he’d never met her but Molly had spoken of him, showed off those silly pictures in her purse of him posing karate style. Those were meant only for her amusement but she’d often taken it upon herself to amuse her friends with them as well. He loved her for it.

When the woman who he wasn’t sure he’d met at all reached across and took his cigarette away, Kione followed her hands, his lips almost pouting out his need for that cigarette. The gesture was something Molly would have done; only Molly didn’t make it so…presumptuous. Probably because Molly had been his and this woman was not and was in fact a stranger. He watched her put it out, then drug his eyes back to her but he didn’t say anything. His fingers twitched with the loneliness, they had not been without a cigarette between them in over a week. In fact, he swears his skin is becoming stained there.

I’m sorry for her loss. Again, how oddly that was worded. “That’s a strange thing to say,” he mumbled out loud, half for his own benefit and half to point out that Molly had not lost, he had. Though he supposed that while here on earth he had lost Molly, where ever she was and whatever she had become, she had lost him as well.

“I own a garage,” he informed her. She must not have been too very close to Molly because his young fiancé had been known to brag a little about Kione’s success. He frowned again, that same draw of the eyebrows, the same crease above his nose. “I suppose I need a place,” he muttered, touching the corner of the paper. He would have liked to live near Vega but it seemed nothing was available. Perhaps he could talk his friend into letting him stay at his place temporarily.

Kione is a man, a very simple man. He may notice how blue the sky is but the fact that woman’s lipstick didn’t smear will forever be beyond him.

"My name's Amor," she answers, and extends one prettily manicured hand to shake. Her nails are red, and fashionably short.

She doesn't attempt to explain any more than that-- doesn't go into how she knew Molly, or what she'd meant the bit about loss. Molly had lost her life, was Amor's line of thought, which is considerably worse than losing her love. You only got one life (expect in special cases) and Kione, in her opinion, should be a little more careful with his. There were no guarantees that drinking and smoking and moping himself to death would reunite him with Molly, after all. But she doesn't say a word of this; she's already decided that she's not going to sit around all night and talk about Molly.

She smiles when he mentions his business, as if she were pleased at this display of human competence.

"Yes," she agrees, "you should get a place of your own. And a fling. And a grip." Just in case being told to get a grip would distract him from being told to get a fling, she recrosses her long legs. The slightest flash of thigh is shown in this action; she seems to be wearing thigh-high stockings, and garters. In a dress that comes to her knees, this is hardly the show-off trampy way that most women wear those these days; instead it just seems 1950's, outdated. And forbidden, of course.

My name's Amor," she answers, and extends one prettily manicured hand to shake. Her nails are red, and fashionably short.

Amor. And he doesn’t remember this name at all, outside of, of course, high school French class and theology. He doesn’t ask.

Kione doesn’t think of it in the way that Amor does. Kione has been drilled to believe that there is something better beyond death, whether it be heaven or some other little slice of paradise he isn’t sure but there should be something. Losing this life to go into that one isn’t a loss at all. All he knew was that he was living the rest of his life without Molly. And that just didn’t seem fair. The worst part was that he couldn’t say that out loud because it was selfish.

He managed a smile when she smiled upon mention of his Garage. It’s a small source of pride. Even the most depressing moment in life can be touched by pride.

A fling? A grip? His fiancé had been in the ground for three days and someone was telling him to move on already? That wasn’t right. Most people frown on you when you move on in a few months. Kione wasn’t sure he was capable of moving on.

She re-crossed her legs. He didn’t notice.

The flash of thigh-high tops did not remain unnoticed, however. If he’d thought on it, Kione wouldn’t be sure if his eyes had been drawn down to her thigh because of the difference in coloration between the stockings and her thigh or because it was in fact a woman’s thigh sheathed in stockings and garter. The one single action of glancing down at her thigh said that he would probably be able to move on one day.

Molly would never wear thigh highs. They were too fussy.

That one thought backtracked a little bit.

“Excuse me?” he asked as if he wanted an explanation. “That would be moving awful fast, don’t you think?” Obviously she didn’t, otherwise she wouldn’t have said it. Kione’s famous for giving people a chance to reword what they’d said.

((Sorry for the delay! Harry Potter.))

"No," she answers.

She takes a sip of her drink; her movements are ladylike without being prim, that sort of gracefulness of motion where you can tell that she isn't putting a lot of effort into it, but rather moving beautifully because she considers every human movement beautiful. Few people are that comfortable in their bodies, but it's something that can often be seen in actors and dancers, some manual laborers and the very best lovers. (And Goddesses, apparently.)

She doesn't look like she's ever going to qualify that or explain her judgment, but after awhile, she does. Her voice is perhaps a little too kind-- not coddling, but maybe just skating the edge of condescending.

"It would be too soon for a new fiancée. But sex is life-affirming. Unlike, for instance-- drinking hard, or smoking."

Her smile is warm and basically friendly. He can take this how he will.

He just blinks, taking in her answer…and her movements. Next to her, or anyone, Kione is damn near clumsy. He has been described as having two left feet on the dance floor, the ability to trip over his own feet on occasion, and the ability to run into more people then he has fingers in one day. It isn’t that he doesn’t pay attention, he just lacks a certain…balance.

No one is that comfortable in their body, except maybe Vaughan…not that he knows Vaughan or that she remembers the little creature out of all of the people in this city, or for that matter, in the world. Although, I bet that she could make Vaughan feel humbled. As it were, Kione is as comfortable in his own skin as a puppy is dressed up in baby clothes. He’s awkward, long limbed, and clumsy.

“I don’t really do casual sex,” he’s trying to convince himself of this more then her, I’m sure. He wasn’t exactly celibate before he started dating Molly. It’s nice to talk to someone about something other then how sad he is without Molly, although, the fact that he isn’t thinking about her makes him a little sad too. He’s sure he should be thinking about her right now.