"Oh, Xandrosian, I DO love you! I'm so sorry I ever left you! But when I found about the affair...well, Xandy, I was shocked!" breathed Yvette, her voice being light with naivety, and, yet, heavy with sorrow.
"Yvette, oh, fair, sweet Yvette! Yojaniqua meant NOTHING to me! NOTHING!" Ryan said, intimately kissing his lover's neck."
"Oh, Xandy, I love you!"
"Yvette, I like you, I do. In fact, maybe, even...I...I...I lo-"
"HEY, KID, WATCH OUT!"
"Thwacka-thwacka-thwacka-thwacka-THWACK!" went an orange Frisbee flying through the air. It's sixteenth notes of movement ended suddenly with an accented "THWACK!" to the kid's head. "Kid", however, was an inaccurate term, considering the man's age.
"Hey, man, I'm real sorry! We didn't see where it went, bro! We're chill, right?" said a sandy-blond stereotype in red cargo pants; a white muscle shirt; a sharktooth necklace; a large, green down jacket; and worn, brown flip-flops.
Why would someone wear flip-flops in winter? Or, for that matter, be playing Frisbee?
"Yeah," said the brownish man who the stereotype's aforementioned orange Frisbee hit his white-and-gray speckled hair, "yeah, we're chill." He gave a large smile, which could've been interpreted as semi-flirtatious, really. Of course, this boy did look sort of...busy. He had on a neon green belly shirt with a picture of a boy with a shark's head, the shirt displaying his pierced bellybutton. His pants weren't too conservative, either, being faded denim and a little above the knee, with slightly frayed edges, despite the cool of early spring; the man still wore long, argyle socks (almost stockings) that reached a little under the end of his calf. He also had on faded yellow legwarmers, as the stockings did little to keep him warm, and a small, bellly-showing down jacket of the same color.
"Oh, uh, thanks man," said the cliched stereotype as he walked away, Frisbee in tow.
Well that was pointless, thought the short man, wiggling his toes inside of his black converse. He leaned his pretty, little head on his uplifted palm, which rested on his thigh, and thought, picking back up the romance novel he had just been reading, Oh well. I'm sure SOMETHING exciting will happen today. But for now, let's turn back to the thrilling life of Yvette McTrashyslut.
And with that, he opened the book, nestled back into the dry knot of tree roots he had been nestled in, and finished the sentence he had been reading. "...I...I...I loathe you."

Thank G-d for spring.

At least, for what passes as spring in Ontario. It doesn't really count by other people's standards. It's cold and nasty and prone to sudden blizzards. It lurks behind bushes and waits to jump you just when you've shed your Bim-esque parka and your balaclavas. It's much more of a feral cat then the frolicking, happy creature that Spring is supposed to be.

Diane, however, shuts off her heat in March. She really can't afford to excesses, so by Good Friday it's warmer outside then in. Today she has ventured out to the local park. She discovered Redway Park in the first couple weeks that she lived in Bayfield, and since then she goes there regularly. It's a good place to bum cigarettes off people while pretending to catch up on your vitamin D.

Speaking of McTrashyslut, Diane.

In a vague gesture of respect towards the volatile and generally cold climate of Bayfield, Diane is wearing a coat. Her black trench coat, precisely. It hugs her generous figure and pretends to slim it. A long, thin mohair scarf has been wrapped repeatedly around her neck in a wave of recognition towards the Fourth Doctor. Her scarf, however, is a great deal less colourful and her bashed up black combat boots are more River Tam.

Besides this, she is wearing black tights, enough make-up to paint the town red and large sunglasses that do something to cover the bags under her eyes.

Whistling breathily, she is meandering down one of the park's many paths, taking in the sights. A game of Frisbee provides some eye candy. She is considering getting a dog - which will steal Frisbees, thus providing a conversation starter - when she spots the young man sitting under the tree.

She slides her sunglasses down her nose a bit to get a better view. Kohl-rimmed green eyes peer over the top of the shades. It's a gesture that she's perfected. After all, she has been practicing it since she was twelve and saw it in a music video.

As Obruck felt the all-too-familiar gaze of a curious individual, he did his best to suck in the bit of a gut he had received while in winter. Nobody wanted to go to the club in winter, for some reason. Probably because the ones who also whore themselves out and dance didn't like making "housecalls", as they called it, to small little trailers with no central heating. Even the poor have their standards, nowadays, the mahogany boy thought, his eyes having not yet moved from the last line he read.
I suppose now's a better time than never to introduce myself. He then faked a rather believable yawn, and closed his book, folding in the corner of the page. He stretched; once, no, twice, no, thrice before looking around and "spotting the girl for the first time". He gave a friendly smile, and sauntered over to the girl.
Rather hefty, he thought, but at least not downright ugly. As he made it over to the girl, he leaned in a bit, hands behind his back, butt sticking out, a pose that looked rather natural but really was an acquired habit, said, "Is something about myself interesting you, Miss? Or are you just prone to staring at random men in the park?" Insert cutesy, high, light laugh. "Ah ha ha ha, no, I'm kidding. Seeing a dark-skinned boy with white hair, blue eyes, and a nasty eighties crackwhore sense of style is rather...interesting. I know I'd be." Shuffle feet nervously, smile a bit shyly. "So, um...what's your name? I'm, oh, you'll think it's stupid. You go first!"

For a couple seconds, Diane just has to stare at him. It's not so much his appearance as his introduction, and she has to stop and wonder what the chances of his being a homicidal maniac are. Then she gets over it and sort of smiles. Her lips are a dark red and a couple strands of her hair are sticking to her lipstick - she brushes them away. The wind pulls them back to join the rest of her hair, an straggley mess of red and blue that's escaped the hold of several kirby grips.

"Basically the second, yeah," she says. It's true. She's very much prone to staring at random men in the park. It's more or less why she goes to the park. The fact that he looks a little odd hadn't even crossed her mind. This is Bayfield, godssake. Everything looks a little queer, in either or both senses of the word.

"I'm Diane," she informs him. She doesn't offer her hand, bu it's not a slight. She simply doesn't like shaking hands. It's germy and clammy and unsettling. "Don't worry about your name, then." She grins, suddenly and briefly. "I'll just call you..." she pauses, fetching around for a name, "Leo. I had a cat called Leo once, you look kinda like him."

As the woman finished the last sentence she said, he knew he had her in his web. Now he would descend and take his prey.
"Well I'm surprised more men don't look at you!" Pathetically disgusting flattery is the best way to build friendships. "I mean, look at you, girl! Whatever, at least you aren't like me." Here, he giggled once more, like one immature fifth grader telling another some stupid, "dirty" joke. "I'm an exotic dancer, you see. Or at least that's what the girls back at the club call it. A much better term is 'stripper'."
As he spoke more, he took more of the girl in. She had, apparently, a liking to heavy makeup. Her green eyes were set in a deep sea of black, the Kohl seeming to be painted on. He looked at the rest of her makeup, and noticed a very white, pale face. Now that's just a little overdone. The Kohl really did contrast way too much with her white face, and Obruck had a feeling that she had just taken a can of white paint and stuck her face in.
Her lips, even, stuck out against the stark snow of a head she had. He recognized that shade of lipstick from the club: "Carmen Red". What a laugh. He had to admit, though (and maybe this did make Obruck a bit of a whore), it really was a pretty shade.
"I like your makeup," Obruck said with a smile. "One of my friends from the club said I should wear makeup when I'm dancing, and pose as a woman; in the darkness of the place, I almost look like one, anyways. But we're a club for everyone, so we have both genders. At least, that's what Gary says. Oh...right. Gary's the owner."
When his hand is rejected, Obruck suddenly bends all the way down to the ground, to pick up a penny lying there. "Do you believe in luck? I like to pretend I do. Heh heh...that's silly of me, right? I'm pretty much a major fag, sometimes. It's nice to meet you, though, Diane! And, I like the name 'Leo'. It's better than my real one...it's 'Obruck'; my adoptive father had a thing for Shakespeare."

Diane just laughs. She's a girl, and therefore susceptible to flattery. It isn't that she doesn't recognise it as such - the recognition simply doesn't stop her from enjoying it. "Nah," she says, making a pretense of batting it away, "look at me." She gestures with one hand at her plump figure. "Waaay too much of me for one guy to deal with."

What is it, she wonders, about exotic dancers? Mind, the last two she met ended up with their tongues in her mouth. And she wasn't even paying them.

His smiles and flattery were having the desired affect. She liked him already. And no one ever had anything nice to say about her make-up. Even she knew that it was horrible. It was half armour, half protest against society. "Thanks."

"Can I see it?" She holds her hand out for the penny. "I believe in luck," she agrees. She laughs again, because believing in luck is stupid. "And fate, and love," she adds, somewhat conspiratorially. These are somewhat embarrassing things to believe in, according to society. Diane is not opposed to a little embarrassment.

"Also, extra-terrestrials. And don't worry. I would totally be a major fag too. If, you know, I was a guy. Maybe in my next life."

She makes a face at his name. "That's.... uhm... interesting. Not that I can talk."

Diana Louise Kent-Simmons was a pretty horrible name, if you asked her.