Brody Donovan stepped out of the street and into the park, glancing both ways. He'd been meaning to come check out Redway Park ever since he'd moved to Bayfield, but only now was he actually getting out to see it. And it was a good day to come out to a park. Sunny and warm -- a temperature that would be comfortable for most people, but for Brody, it was just slightly uncomfortably warm. But then again, that was his fault. Brody never wanted to expose any more skin than he had to, so he was wearing his usual outfit of jeans, a long-sleeved t-shirt, and his jacket.

Taking a deep breath of relatively fresh air, Brody made his way over to a bench near a patch of perfectly groomed flowers. Dropping into a seat, he surveyed the park. It was a little too perfect, too symmetrical, too manicured for his tastes. Sure, he needed everything under his control to be perfect and symmetrical, but that didn't mean he didn't want to see some wildness in the park, some evidence of nature doing its thing by itself.

But Brody was glad just to be outside right now. He'd spent the past seven and a half hours up to his elbows in disinfectant in an empty hospital room, and while that was good for him, it was also pretty boring. And smelly. He probably reeked of Lysol.

Glancing over his shoulder, he discreetly raised one hand to his face and took a sniff. Yup. And, God, he was so sick of that smell. It was bad enough smelling it all day at work, but then his apartment reeked of it too. It had gotten to the point where Brody went out just to get away from the smell.

Shaking his head slightly, he sighed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. He was kind of in a self-pitying mood today, and felt a stab of jealousy whenever he saw other people doing things he wished he could do, without regard for germs or getting sick. Even just glancing around the park, he got jealous. He wished he could be that kid, rolling down the hill, not caring about dirt or whatever could be on the ground there. He wished he could be one of those teenagers, making out on a bench, sharing a drink and a cigarette between kisses. He wished he could be pretty much anyone in this park besides him. And yeah, he was comparing his fucked-up insides to everyone else's glossed-over outsides, and he knew that it wasn't a fair comparison, but he still wanted to be anyone but him.

Diane was sitting on a park bench, looking sleazy.

It was not an intentional look. It had simply happened that way, starting out with falling out of bed at half past four in the afternoon with a massive headache. A complete and utter absence of food in her apartment (she wasn't counting the strange, foul smelling creature that was breeding an army in one of the vegetable drawers of her fridge) had driven her out of the apartment.

So now it was forty-five minutes later, her stomach and head somewhat pacified with coffee and one of those utterly disgusting creations that Tim Horten's called 'donuts', she is sitting in the park. She has a cigarette between her red lips - mostly she is watching it burn itself to ash as opposed to actually smoking - and she has her legs crossed. Her skin shows up pure white in contrast to the black of her fishnet stockings, which are pretending to add decency to any outfit that doesn't really have any. The only word for black pleather mini-skirts is slutty, and even the most in innocent black tee turns to the dark side when the neckline is that low. Add to this that heavy eyeliner with red lipstick has never been a really good idea, and that huge (fake) hoops don't add class and you have a good idea of how little fashion sense Diane apparently has.

Flicking her hair behind her shoulders, she glances around to see who she's sharing the sitting area with. An grey-haired, somewhat stately looking lady who she suspects is about to come over and tell her to find a new vocation. A young mother with a handful of children. A kind of cute boy. She offered the required smile in his direction, briefly, and then busied herself with getting the top off a bottle of water (Tim Horten's water, the sort with picture of kids playing football on the label) and taking a long drink. Drinking alway made her dehydrated.

Brody returned the slutty-looking girl's smile, but at that point she was no longer looking, so there really wasn't much point, grinning at her inanely. It was the thought that counted, though, right? Actually, probably not for strangers. Feeling pretty stupid, he looked away, fixing his gaze on a little kid pulling up flowers. Good for him. The park needed a little roughing up.

After a moment, his gaze returned to the girl who had smiled at him. God, she looked out of place in this park. Who got dressed and made up like that for an afternoon-slash-early evening in the park? He didn't know many people who would get dressed up like that for any reason. Mentally shrugging, he dismissed it. So maybe she was a little weird. So was he.

Watching her smoke, he felt another stab of jealousy or self-pity, he wasn't sure which. After a moment and a mental assessment of his bacteria situation, he made up his mind. He was going to be as normal as he could, and that would start by him going over to talk to the sleazy girl.

Standing up, he made his way over to her. "Hey. Uh, can I bum a cigarette?" If Brody was going to act like a normal person, he was damn well going to have a cigarette. He'd quit months ago after realizing just how much it was affecting his health (and his cash), but it didn't stop him from wanting one. Especially after the sudden surge of nerves this decision to be normal caused.

Diane - her gaze momentarily drawn away from the cute guy, to some kid who was engaging in a misguided attempt to weed the gardens - sets the bottle down on the bench beside her, balancing it against one generous thigh while she twists the cap back on. She puts the cigarette (its tip stained red with lipstick) back to her lips and drags.

She's quite aware that her outfit is at the same time trash and much more dressed then most people bother with. If you point this out to her, she'll tell you cheerfully that she likes it that way. She's not sure she actually does. The overdone make-up and the hair (which would like to put out of its blow-dried dyed agonies) contribute to the look.

It's sort of meant to be a 'fuck you, world, I don't care what you think' look, but it's done half-heartedly. She'd like to not care what everyone else thinks, but she knows she does.

Glancing up to discover that cute boy has come her way, she cracks another smile and exhales smoke, blowing it away from his face.

"I don't smoke," she tells him, quite seriously. She wonders where he thinks she's keeping these cigarettes he intends to bum - she's got no pockets - but she's got the carton stuck in the waistband of her skirt. She fishes out a cigarette and holds it out to him. "Want a light to go with?"

"Please," Brody nods, taking the cigarette gingerly and trying desperately not to freak out about the fact that she touched it and now he's supposed to put it in his mouth. God, can he at least act normal?

Now closer to her, he realizes that she's pretty attractive, even through all the makeup. And really, she doesn't need all that makeup. It takes away somehow. He guesses less really is more, at least sometimes. Maybe she's not comfortable in her own skin, he guesses. Low self-esteem, something. But it's probably not polite to psychoanalyze her before he even knows her name.

With a slightly awkward smile, he sits down next to her, carefully enough to avoid touching her or the bench with his bare skin out of pure habit. He waits for her to produce her lighter, though now that he's looking at her, he's not sure where she's hiding it.

((Gah. I know, it's short, I changed tenses, and it took me forever. I promise, once I find a job, I'll be better. Sorry...))

Brody probably does not want to know where the lighter - stuck in the band of her bra - is. She's had years of practice, though, and like a magician at a fair she can make the cheap red lighter appear with a vague wave of her hand. She flicks the flame to life and lights his cigarette.

"So, how ya doin'," she asks, just trying to make some friendly conversation. Hopefully it doesn't sound like she's after employment. He looks a bit on edge, or possibly a bit unwell. But cute. She likes cute. It always improves a day and today needed improving. She's under the weather. Leastways, the weather is hanging over her. Metaphorically. It's too nice out for it to be literal.

She drags on her cigarette.


ooc// Don't worry about it.

"Not bad," Brody shrugs, taking a drag of his own cigarette. "I mean, I'm off work, and it's a beautiful day. I can't be too bad, can I?" Of course, he has no idea what he's going to do for the rest of the day, which usually means that he'll go buy booze and drink alone in his apartment, which was never fun. But at least he has money for booze and an apartment, right? He forces himself to be at least a little optimistic.

"How about you?" he asks after a moment. "How are you?" Brody turns to look at her, trying to find somewhere for his eyes to rest that won't be awkward. Face? Distracting makeup. He'll be trying to figure out exactly how much makeup she has on. He's pointedly not looking at her chest or her fishnet-clad legs, and, his eyes flicking over her once more, he returns his gaze to his cigarette. That, at least, is somewhere safe for him to stare.

Brody really needs to get out more.

"I dunno," Diane says, doubtfully, a small frown pulling together her pencil darkened eyebrows. "I could say the same for myself... No work today, beautiful day... But that doesn't mean I'm quite seeing it, y'know. So you could be pretty damn awful. It's possible." She's still working off that nasty hangover and so she's not feeling in the best possible mood. She could go on to moan about all the ways her life sucks, but she's not quite that desperate yet. She watches the silver smoke trailing into the air and shrugs.

One day she'd like to explain to a guy that the reason her skirt is that short and her top is this low is so that people like him can look. She's only showing it off so people can notice. If she wanted him to look at her face, she'd wear a cardboard box.

"So," she adds, after a moment's thoughtful pause, "are you?"

In her experience, as soon as people start telling you reasons they must be okay - they aren't.

Brody blinks, avoiding answering for a second by taking a hard drag on his cigarette. Exhaling, he shrugs. "Maybe. I don't know what I'm gonna do with the rest of my day, and..." He stops himself. Now is not the time to spill everything that's on his mind to a complete stranger. That's what therapists are for.

"Do you ever have one of those days when your brain won't stop running?" he asks her, trying to be general instead of dumping specific problems on her. For some reason he thinks that if he's bothering her, she'll let him know. Maybe it's how candid she's being, instead of treating a simple "how are you" as just a common greeting. Brody kind of feels like that's something to be respected, though. He asked, and he did want to know. And frankly, this is more interesting that it would have been had she just said "fine". He strongly suspects that unless she had really good conversational skills, they would have just sat there in silence.

She and wonders if the same people who look at their cigarettes rather then at you are the people who also don't immediately start spilling their sad lives all over you. She doesn't mind - doesn't mind if they do, either - but it's so charmingly polite when they don't. Polite people tend to make her ever-so fickle heart go all woozy.

Smiling encouragingly, she tells him, "Sure. Somedays doesn't it just seem to want to run you out of the house? Or off the side of a bridge?" Her tone is cheery. It implies that she doesn't really spend much time contemplating the joys of jumping off high buildings - she's just playing around with the words. She's gesticulating as she talks, her cigarette trailing smoke behind the vaguely swooping movements of her pale hands. "One can always go out and get utterly plastered, of course," she adds, and then drops her tone to tell him, "Although I hear we aren't supposed to do that until five o'clock."

Brody grins slightly, becoming more comfortable with this girl by the moment. "I'd be too much of a wuss to jump off a bridge," he confesses. "I'd jump out into traffic or something instead. For some reason I think I'd be able to do that." Shrugging, he takes another drag of the cigarette.

His grin widens as she talks about getting plastered -- it sounds like a good idea to him. "Isn't it close to five?" he asks, looking over at her. "At least, close enough?" For some reason, though, he thinks this girl might consider 9 AM close enough.

Getting plastered in and of itself isn't particularly exciting, not for Brody. He does it often enough. The exciting aspect for Brody is actually having a companion to do it with. Granted, that gives him more opportunity to get all germified, but he's trying to be normal, right? And that's what a normal person would do.

"Arsenic," she suggests, brightly. "Or overdosing on anything illegal. I think that those would be my choices before I started jumping off things. Drowning always seems horrific and I imagine I'd make a terrible splat if I jumped off a building." She pulls an elaborate face. "I might even crush some innocent passerby."

"I actually have no idea what time it is. Not long after breakfast, if you ask me. But it's probably close enough... I mean, it's always five o'clock somewhere, isn't it?" She used to have a tee-shirt that said that, but it fell into rags eventually and now it mostly gets used for scrubbing the sink, or her flat's obnoxiously leaky bathtub.

Normal people - if you asked Diane - probably go home, eat a healthy and balanced meal, possibly with a little wine and then they sit down in front of the TV and watch soap operas or the news or something. It's true that she doesn't really have much of an idea of what these 'normal' people would do. She doesn't seem to realise she's one of them.