Ian

It's late by the time Ian arrives at the Diamond Cabaret. Somewhere close to midnight, and he's tired enough from performing that he could conceivably claim ignorance as to the nature of this particular establishment. When River texted him, she didn't offer up any sort of warning. But let's face it: Ian knows exactly what this place is. He doesn't need to have been here, or even googled the website, to know that a place called the Diamond Cabaret is almost certainly a strip club. And if he wasn't one hundred percent certain before he arrived, he is now.

There's a moment after he parks his car in the lot where he looks out at the building, awash in a glow of blue and orange light, and contemplates whether this is something he actually wants to do. Maybe it's the exhaustion talking, but in the end he gives this little huff of laughter and gets out of the car.

Fuck it. Why not.

So he goes in. The girl at the door is pretty and attentive, and she smiles at him as he walks past. The interior of the club is plush and faux-decadent, as higher-end strip clubs often are. There's a room nearby featuring a display case full of imported cigars, which might be the most heterosexual thing he's seen all day. He doesn't sit down immediately. Instead he looks out over the layout of the club, searching for some sign of River's vaguely-familiar face.

He's dressed appropriately enough, all things considered. His jeans are a designer label, and the leather jacket he has on over his t-shirt looks expensive. But he isn't suited up like some of the other clientele.

River

Well and so, she had to actually go to work. The community was small enough that she couldn't No Call/No Show at the club and, frankly, she still had Work to do. Life had to go on, despite the fact that she was now sleeping in a bathtub at a hotel with her former mentor and they were not exactly on the best of terms. The bathtub, oddly enough, had been her idea. River actually slept in the bathtub even when they were on good terms, having since concluded that she liked the enclosed space and the occasional feeling of cold porcelain on her skin juxtaposed with a nice blanket. She usually came in a few moments before sunrise anyway, slept a little bit, and then continued her day.

Admittedly, having a random woman covered in glitter sleeping in a bathtub scared the ever loving shit out of housekeeping. Without the lights on, she looked a bit like a dead body and then people had to wonder oh god, is there a dead stripper in the bathtub or is she sleeping? The answer is not usually don't worry, she's just sleeping so inevitably she gets woken up by housekeeping, vacates the room to go swimming or do yoga or whatever it is she does in the morning, and then crawls back into the tub to go back to sleep.

River is at work, and she isn't dressed like a cowgirl or a cheerleader- she's wearing a cocktail dress. And not an excuse for a cocktail dress, either, not something lycra stretchable I-can-see-practically-everything number. Grant you, it's gold and covered in sequins, but it actually does leave something to the imagination. River Vasquez rents space; she doesn't intend on giving people a show that they didn't explicitly pay her for. She had been talking to a business man, presumably. Someone with graying hair and a tan who brought out a wiry, nervous looking sort with him. The table smelled like Big Oil money, like people who made their fortunes in black gold and they were showing their new accountant a good time from out of town.

Her eyes go to the door, the way everyone's eyes go to the door when someone new comes in and she smiles, barely grazes the older man's shoulder and flashes him a smile. He calls her a Mexican rose. (Cuban, she corrects, laughs but corrects) and she continues on her way to go greet the rather attractive, probably exhausted man who just entered.

"You made it," she told him, smile bright but not too bright; he can probably figure as to why. She puts on a great face for the clients- flexible. River is flexible, "Janette is running the bar tonight, if you want anything I can cover it."

Ian

He spots River near a group of business men, her gold cocktail dress winking and glittering in the warm light. She looks busy, so he doesn't immediately approach her. Instead he offers a subtle nod of acknowledgment when she looks his way. There's a girl carrying a tray of empty glasses who brushes past him and asks, in a trained and flirty voice, if he'd like a drink. But River is already heading his way, so he declines. When she gets to his side, he smiles and quirks an eyebrow just slightly. This knowing little look that says - you did not tell me you worked at a strip club.

But he doesn't give her a hard time - because he gets it. And besides, he's seen much worse than this place before. Given a slightly different set of circumstances, he could very well have ended up doing something similar.

"I could probably use a bourbon, if you have any good ones."

He could use more than one. But probably not as much as River could. Ian doesn't know yet that River just lost her cabal-mate. He doesn't know that she's been sleeping in a bathtub. There are a lot of things he doesn't know - yet.

"I like your dress," he adds. "Do you dance here?" There's a nod of his head toward the stage.

River

River must be a phenomenal dancer on stage because she is not, in fact, the most flirtacious of the people in the area. Keeps her sense of personal space just that- personal. Is personable enough that she can convince people that they want to buy her time versus being able to enjoy it without a price. Supply and demand, and in the particular business she is in? River has learned to be able to market herself as a very limited product.

"Widow Jane, eight years straight?" she asks for a confirmation. They have some pretty good bourbon here, as far as she knows. River knows what she gets in her flask at the beginning of her night off, knows that she cracked open a bottle with Janette recently and knows that the deep cherry notes are not always everyone's cup of tea.

Or, in this case, glass of bourbon.

She compartmentalizes well. Puts things away and handles herself whens he has a job to do and, provided there isn't anything to churn her stomach, she might be able to handle it. Or, perhaps, the distance is her way of mourning, being unavailable even if it comes down to people who don't matter. Whatever the case. "I do, dance here, I mean," she tells him, "I'm main stage in about ten minutes if you want to stay? I don't know if this is your preferred location and I kind of feel like I need to ward people off so you can actually, you know, relax without being hit up for a lap dance."

A second, and she realizes he complimented her dress and she laughs, looks up, "oh! Yes, thank you. It's hard to take off, which is actually why I like it."

Ian

Widow Jane, she suggests, and Ian smiles, nodding in confirmation. The two of them head to the bar and he leans back against it on two elbows, casual and languid. This place may not be his preferred haunt, but he's far from uncomfortable. There's a glance thrown to the bartender when they get there. River confirms that she's about to go on stage and Ian laughs when she suggests it might not be safe to leave him alone.

"Are you worried about the dancers or the customers?" Because all things considered, she could have meant either one. "I don't think I could afford a lap dance here," he observes. And although he's teasing it isn't entirely untrue. He's wearing a thousand dollar jacket and three hundred dollar jeans but that kind of clothing budget leaves precious little expendable income when one dances ballet for a living (even taking into account the investments he set up back when he was modeling.) Sometimes appearances can be deceiving. And Ian, well... he's all about appearance, isn't he?

"Don't worry about me. I'll be fine."

River

She does order him a drink, and true to her word does put it on her tab, which she actually has open. Orders a bourbon with him because, sometimes, you need to drink with the clients. Also, River just lost a friend. A very, very dear friend; the boss seemed to stay away from her for the week because she came to work on Saturday and spent half of the day crying backstage. Grant you, in some establishments this is not an uncommon sight. For the Diamond Cabaret, this made management concerned.

She said she'd lost a family member, didn't say which one. Let one of the bouncers give her a hug because (ironically) she found him incredibly non-threatening.

"Dancers, mostly? The customers are more like islands- so long as you don't overlap they're fine. I haven't run into too many-" she makes a little uncomfortable sound, takes a sip of her bourbon (she takes it neat, thank you), "-you know. Overly familiar people."

"It's not a bad place to work, but I'm an independent contractor right now."

So despite the fact that this was the kind of place where your lapdances might cost more than the standard twenty? She wasn't raking in much in terms of take home.

Ian

Given the clientele, he's also probably not their type. Ian, of course, knows this. It's more likely that one of them might sit down and try to make small talk than ask him for a lap dance. River says it's not a bad place to work - that she hasn't run into too many overly familiar people, but when she makes that little sound Ian affords her a careful gaze. He knows what she means by that. Knows why she might want to wear a dress that wasn't easy for straying hands to remove.

He picks up his bourbon and breathes it in for a moment before taking a drink. The taste is smooth and warm and it makes his tired muscles uncoil a little.

"Yeah, it seems alright." (For a strip club.) Ian's gaze slides over the room, taking in the atmosphere. There's an older man a few seats away who's getting a lap dance from a girl who's wearing significantly less fabric than River is, and Ian watches this with an almost clinical gaze - like maybe he's analyzing her technique.

His eyes sweep back to River. "Provided you don't mind the work." It isn't really stated in a judgmental way. More... questioning. Some people take off their clothes for a living because they like it. Some people do it because they have to.

"There are naked pictures of me on the internet, so I can't really judge."

River

"I find the idea of being able to hang seven feet in the air by my thigh muscles alone to be ridiculously empowering," she laughed, took another sip of her drink. She's got about half of it left and she knows better than to leave it, doesn't make enough to feel particularly good about tossing it but, there she was. Pushing it back to the bar and giving the bartender a little unvoiced thank you. The drink goes away. She's smart about what she drinks, doesn't leave things unattended and knows she can't really enjoy her drink if she's still working.

River took a few steps back, impossible heals and completely comfortable in them. They can't be much different than pointe shoes, she thinks sometimes. Except, of course, when they are different. And they are different, heels distribute differently.

"I like the style, but I don't much care for people taking liberties they think a twenty affords them," she says. Probably shouldn't say while she's at work but the woman is frank. She smiles something quiet and pleased, "I'm gonna go get ready. Mainstage, my time slot. I had to do a lot of negotiating to get it so I don't want to miss."

Ian

He laughs at that, because he gets it. There's so much ritual and expression and power in the kinds of things they do - the way they work their bodies. Maybe it's different for her than it is for him. People dance for all kinds of reasons. But empowering certainly isn't a bad word for it.

She slides the rest of her drink back across the bar. Ian's eyes follow the movement and almost he wants to tell her not to waste it, but he gets that too - why she doesn't leave it. Even with him there (perhaps especially with him there.) This is not a place for blind trust.

She has to go get ready. Ian nods toward the stage. "Go do your thing. I'll be here when you get done."

Once she's gone, he takes his drink and finds a seat closer to the stage, settling down into the plush cushions with perhaps a bit less comfort than his relaxed body language would imply. The chair, see, it has a smell to it. All the chairs here do. He can pick it up better than most - the lingering traces of old pheromones woven into the fabric.

There's a man a few seats away who looks at him like he doesn't belong there. Ian just sips his drink and pointedly avoids eye contact.

River

[Dex+art (dance), diff 6 - 1 (aptitude!)= 5. Let's see how this actually goes?]

Dice: 7 d10 TN5 (1, 2, 3, 4, 4, 8, 9) ( success x 3 ) [Doubling Tens] [WP]

River

She disappears off to back room/dressing room because she does have to get ready. It's a production, after all, even if she's on for all of three minutes but it's a solid three and a half minutes of actually focusing on what she's doing while simultaneously trying to make money. She has to get her head in the game.

River's head, most definitely, is not in the game.

She looks in the mirror, is in the process of pinning her hair up and away from her face. She hasn't talked to too many of the other girls aside from the perfunctory conversations. There's a strange aire of both camaraderie and competition- everyone gets time, and frankly River got a damned fine slot and she didn't necessarily operate like some of the other dancers. More like she's channeling her inner courtesan. We digress.

The lights dim and, after a few moments, she does come out. Knows her audience, knows said audience might have a thing for secretaries, or at the very least knew she could milk getting out of a pencil skirt and a blouse for some time. The heels are impossibly high; it seems to be a standard issue for the girls, something about the way it makes the body move. It's an aesthetic. Beyonce plays, but it's a slow song- Crazy in Love. Starts with a piano introduction and she walks out- hips move.

Her lipstick is brick red. Cheekbones high. Lashes thick.

The first few moments are punctuated with a purposeful gait and the occasional moment of fairly intense eye contact with that poor accountant that the big oil boys brought to the club. She moves and the world feels like it's breaking down, for her at least. It's the motion of the universe and she turns, a slow and purposeful moment where she's slipping out of her skirt, the way that she has to push it off of her hips before it just falls tot he ground, carefully discarded far enough away that she won't slip on it, the blouse she's wearing is long but when she takes herself back to the pole, drops down and there's a peek of a garter belt and the hints of how very... very little she's wearing beneath that shirt.

She smiles and it hits one side of her mouth, closes her eyes because she doesn't want people to realize the smile won't hit her eyes, doesn't want to break the illusion of seduction, that there might be a room full of people but she's not dancing for the other dozen people there. There is a moment when the shirt disappears, the music intensifies and the motion to remove clothing is more intense- more purposeful. The kind of frenzied intensity that comes with passion and then there is art. The pole had merely been there as an accessory, a prop to hold her up in moments showing off provocative flexibility but at that moment she went from mere seductress to acrobat.

River shouldn't be as strong as she is, most of it is due to the fact that she's lighter than she looks, keeps a relatively low bodyweight and practices the sort of control necessary to maintain effortless spins and pirouettes and drops (and she does drop, at one point, held high in the air when she;s taking off her bra and she plummets with arms out and back arched and stops a foot above the ground. Walks herself outward and back like she's a gymnast.

The climax of the music has ended, and the woman takes the time to collect what she'd earned, comes close enough to people to accept whatever they'd offer in rare moments. Her mascara is smudged, eyes bright and glistening and the world threatens to fall apart, only to be built back again.

She dances like a force of reverent entropy, like everything comes together for a reason, for a price, and it will all end just like the song does... but she'll dance anyway because it's life affirming. It's in the almost half-hearted way that she collects her money that it becomes clear-

River Vasquez would dance, even if she never saw another cent again. It's fundamental to who, and what, she is.

Ian

It's a good performance, technically speaking. River has more grace and artistry than probably any exotic dancer Ian has seen live. That alone catches his attention when she gets on stage. The way she moves. The precision and the agility. To a dancer's eyes, it's impressive. He knows how difficult some of those moves are. And if his response to the dance is a slightly different sort of interest than the men around him, they hardly notice. They aren't looking at him.

There's an air of detachment about it though - and he notices that too. Notices the way she plays the part without fully feeling it. It's the only thing that keeps her from truly lighting up the stage.

But he doesn't judge her for that.

The other men in the audience shout encouragements at the stage, tossing bills out to try and attract River's attention. Ian is the only one of them who remains calm and seated throughout the whole performance. At some point he finishes off his drink and sets the empty glass down, leaning his head against a curled fist as he watches.

She's beautiful - with or without her clothes. And it isn't as though he doesn't notice that (of course he does.) Even appreciates it in this quiet sort of way. But he doesn't look at her with hunger, the way many of the other patrons do. Instead there is this reverent appreciation of the dance itself - the skill and the seduction that she works on the crowd.

When it's over, he watches her collect her earnings and exit the stage. Then he stands up and migrates back to the bar to wait for her.

River

The whole night is a performance like that- someone has to know she's going through the motions. People have to know that while River Vasquez is technically superb she's not connected to this, as much as she isn't connected to anything. She had connections, some didn't stay buried and others don't get to rest in the ground; it's a difficult juxtaposition but if she can teeter on those heels surely she can manage her own personal life.

River's staying in a hotel, getting to know Ihsan, who she has deigned to be a perfectly enjoyable young woman. Someone she can talk to without, well, getting to say very much. Maybe part of her allure comes from the willful detachment, or perhaps people just don't notice. At the end of the day, she's a commodity. At the end of the day, the role she's been cast for has the wrong actress in it but the production certainly makes due.

And she does come out again, after she's fixed her makeup and pinned her hair back and put that gold dress back on that is visually stunning but difficult to remove (there's a trick to it, she told a client recently, but I don't think you'll get to figure it out while I'm on the clock. There's other reasons she does this job, and those reasons have more to do with karmic duty than thrills. She may be seeing that man again, though she hopes not. Hopes that when she checks in again that he's managed to redirect his path, as of yet River has not met someone who seeks the kind of forgiveness she offers.)

River dallies, goes back to talk to the big oil boys and actually does give the poor little accountant her attentions briefly. She laughs, kisses him on the forehead like he's an errant first grader. "Congratulations on your promotion," she tells him. The boys roar and he settles in to a quiet blush, "don't let it run you ragged."

Walks away, heads back to the bar. Gives Ian a little wave which is little more than a wiggle of her fingers and a smile.

"Should I quit my day job?"

Ian

"Mm, depends. You're certainly good enough." It's a diplomatic answer, but not a dishonest one. By the time River arrives, he's seated on one of the barstools with a second glass of bourbon (he paid for this one himself) resting half-empty in front of him. None of the other dancers have attempted yet to ply their trade with him. They know how to spot where the money is flowing, and guys like Ian? They aren't nearly desperate enough.

They also likely noticed that he didn't take out his wallet while River was dancing.

"I did think about tossing a twenty up there, but... it seemed a little cheap." (It seemed a little like he'd be saying that she was cheap.) Rationally, of course, he knows that it's her job. That this is just how exotic dancers get paid. But the social dynamics of it have never sat right with him.

Instead, he pulls something out of the liner pocket of his jacket and slides it across the bar. If River looks at it, she'll see that it's a ticket to his show. (The title is called: Rituals. And the dance company: Pulse. The performance is in the Buell Theatre.) "So I thought maybe... a trade. A dance for a dance. Or, alternately, you could scalp that and probably get about fifty bucks." His mouth curls into a dry smile. "I won't hold you to it."

There's a pause before he adds, more seriously. "You were beautiful up there."

River

She does take a seat at the bar, crosses her legs and leans against the bar as though she is actually talking shop with someone who she could actually talk shop with. River's done this with some of the other girls, things she's shown people that you can do on a pole without conceivably breaking your neck- unlike some of the things River did tonight, which could actually cause a minor concussion if done incorrectly.

But there is a ticket in hand and she does take it between her fingers, feels the paper and looks over the printed pieces and the raised ink. She doesn't have the kind of feel for paper some people do but she certainly does have an eye for the way tickets look. They're unique; this is no different.

"I'd rather see you dance than stand in a parking lot to get cash," she says with a little wave, as though she were dismissing a thought, "unless you can do that on the internet now?"

Given her tone, it doesn't sound like she'd know how to scalp tickets on the internet. Shrugs it off because, eh- technology. What can you do?

"And you already had to pay cover to get in, if you paid any more I'd feel guilty," truth to that, even though she has a playful smile on her face. He tells her she was beautiful while she performed and some people might have taken that as flirtation, but she hadn't. In fact, the entirety of her interaction with Ian, while occasionally playful, wasn't necessarily flirtatious. She wasn't trying to get into the man's pants even though, ironically, she was paid primarily by her ability to make people think that she did want to get into their pants.

Her cheeks turn pink, not because she thinks Ian is hitting on her (she does not, in fact, seem to believe this) but rather because he'd given her a compliment that seemed to mean something.

"If you're ever interested in learning some of this, let me know? It's actually easier barefoot," River says, "or, if you want to see me perform again. Either way, don't be a stranger."

Ian

There's a soft laugh at that - less because he thinks the suggestion absurd than because he actually had been thinking about the last time he attempted to pole dance. River blushes a little at the compliment, and if Ian had been flirting with her he would have said something else then. But they aren't flirting. It's probably the first time in a while that Ian has been in this kind of circumstance with someone and not tried to follow it up into something more intimate.

"Who knows, maybe I'll take you up on that. I don't think the clients here would like me though."

Maybe not, but there are certainly places where he could make a tidy profit doing this kind of thing - were he inclined to do so. He certainly had the body for it.

He finishes off his drink slowly. When he sets it down, he purses his lips together and runs his tongue between them thoughtfully.

"I'm glad you invited me. Even though I'm about half-ready to fall asleep on this stool - through no fault of your own." He slides off the seat like he's maybe getting ready to go.

"We should talk more. Maybe somewhere more private next time." That probably does sound like he's hitting on her, so he clarifies: "You know, away from prying ears."

There's a pause before he adds, "You should call my friend Emma by the way. I think she really likes you."

River

He says that she should call Emma, because he thinks that Emma really likes River and she ducks down, covers her mouth brows raise and the look on her face can only be described as delight.

"Really?"

Oh, that doesn't help her not blush at all. "I kind of thought she was out of my league," she admits.

Ian

He laughs again, and the sound is fuller this time - warmer. "Yeah. Well, she's a bit... aloof." (Pot - kettle, Ian.) "But when I told her I was going to see you she made this face... I can't do it justice. It was a very Emma face. But anyway, I could tell she was a little... disgruntled."

That was really the best word for it. Because Emma Lakshmi was far too composed to ever exhibit obvious jealousy.

"Don't sell yourself short." He starts to step away, but turns back long enough to say, "Thanks for the drink. And the dance." Then he offers her this lingering smile as he turns and walks out into the night.

Dan

Bittersweet is a slow pour coffeehouse / mixology bar tucked away on a corner of LoDo, with a changing 'gallery' of local art on the walls.  This month, the featured artist is Tish Evans, a local weaver / textile artist whose work spans the functional and the fantastical.   The largest piece is a wall-hanging the size of a small buffalo like a sunset woven in negative: shadows where light should be, and light where the shadows belong.

Leonard Cohen on the soundsystem (Nevermind) and a low buzz of noise from the small crowd.  They do a bang-up business mornings and weekends, but mid-evening - when local bar/restaurants are crowded enough to spill out onto the street on a warm October night - the coffee bar / bar bar (and that is what the sign outside says:

bittersweet

coffee bar / bar bar

) - is sparsely populated. Among the denizens: a bearded blond guy with a button-down flannel, the sleeves rolled quite neatly up to his elbows revealing a variety of intricate tattoos, portfolio open on the table, frowning at his Macbook, drinking coffee from a ceramic mug.

River

River was doing as River is want to do right now- which was exploring.

She knew the lay of the land, for the most part. Kept an ear to the ground so she would know which gang was where and whose turf she needed to stay out of. Where people dropped dead bodies in the event she needed to go and be an investigator. In the event she needed to stand on her own two feet. River's had her fill of dead things- she wants coffee. Contemplates being a barrista instead of a dancer and there she goes, pushes the door open with a jingle and she's got on a pair of shorts paired with cowbox boots. The shirt is a little long for her, button down and probably belonging to an ex-boyfriend.

She's got on a vest and carries a purse that is the size of a small duffelbag. It houses a world of wonders and her dakr hair is worn down. This place was a coffee bar and an actual bar. She contemplates mixing both before she sees the man with the blond beard. Hasn't she seen him before.

River makes a tentative approach, tries to act cool, like she's not trying to check Dan out. Maybe failing. Probably failing.

Dan

What's the point of checking someone out if they don't notice and return the look?  Maybe there's a certain aesthetic appreciation there.  Maybe some folks don't want to get caught.  Most do, though.  How else do you know if your regard might be returned?

--

He glances up.  Blue eyes framed with slight crinkles that deepen when his mouth moves, as it does not, in a brief skimming grin.  Notes the bag.

"That thing looks big enough to carry around three cases of beer or a side of beef."

Wry.

He looks tired, though.

He is tired.

Kiara

One of those days. That's what it is.

The weather doesn't offer a backdrop for it, not really. It's been cloudy all afternoon but the Denver wind hasn't taken up the mantle some locals have; pumpkins starting to dot porches with their garish, grinning smiles cut wide across their sides. It's not freezing, it just feels - a little heavy. Dull and gritty where the sun slides away and even when it returns - Denver today - feels like a city with secrets. It doesn't always.

Sometimes, on evenings like the one it's settling into, it feels - promising. Those secrets, the unknowns, they feel like an enticement to come along (come find us).

-

She almost collided with another car earlier. Intersection. Palms slammed down on horns. Guy cutting her off (and nearly cutting a slice out of her car). Then her engine stalled. One of those days. She had to circle the block twice to find a park so she could make a meeting.

-

She passes a crime scene on the way to find this mixology bar she's wanted to try forever. There's police tape flapping in the evening air and the sight of the lights (cutting blue and red, blue and red) against the windows is a strange visual tattoo against the night.

There's a crowd milling around, curious stares and quiet chatter as an ambulance rolls around a corner.

Kiara picks up her pace. She's around the corner before it pulls to a stop.

-

One of those days, now - evening. The Verbena finds Bittersweet on foot. One minute there's no sign of her and then; the door opens; a swirl of perfume and energy and red lipstick. Kiara Woolfe, adjusting her bag over her shoulder and frowning at the menu.

Kiara

[Oh right! Awareness, just in case.]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 3, 5, 6, 9, 9) ( success x 3 )

River

"Sometimes, I like to carry a keg with me," she adjusts her purse, switches it over to the other shoulder, "true facts."

She sounds like she's not from here, or at the very least like she's not one who speaks English as a first language. Truth be told, River is from here, was born in the United States but she's spent enough time outside of the standard English-speaking populace that she doesn't have the same cadence and timbre of a native speaker.

"Can I buy you a coffee?" looks at the mug, realizes he has coffee, looks back and offers a smile anyway, as if smiling would cover up the fact that she completely missed he was drinking coffee before, "I'm River."

Dan

"False lies," he rejoins, this quick skim of a smile cutting through his beard.  It reaches - but only just - his dark blue eyes.  Watching as she shifts that purse, his eyes cutting across her frame - hand to strap to hand again - with a light precision that strikes one as aware rather than observant.  "Now if you'd said a half-keg I might've believed you."

And so.  Mouth slides from that into a slight smirk as she offers to buy him a coffee and yes, he already has coffee.  Wasn't simply here to steal their wifi and he thinks about telling her that, but he doesn't.

Cuts a glance down at his mug like: yeah.  "I already have one.  You're welcome to buy yourself a coffee and pull up a chair, though."

--

Then he's sitting back in that chair, this long spare frame, button-down and fitted jeans and leather boots.  Sits back enough and tall enough to catch Kiara's eye.  Gives her a wave that could be taken as an invitation, if she's looking for one.

Kiara

So, Bittersweet. She takes two steps inside and nearly collides with a young man on his way out. It's Kiara's fault this time, she's staring down at her phone and tapping out some (vitally important no doubt) message with the fall of all that long, dark hair tumbling over a shoulder and then - jostled. She looks up, startled and is reaching to apologize when he's doing the same; adjusting glasses up a thin nose and waving her apology off, because - well - it's probably the eyes and the hair.

It usually was, with the pagan.

Still, she's breathing out and pushing back all that hair with a bracelet-laden wrist when she spots (feels that resolute splash of radiance) Dan and the hand flowers out. He gets a smile and she nods toward the bar - universal I'm going to order first gesture - before she's moving. Kiara often seems to be perpetually doing that. In motion. Moving. (Running).

She's in jeans and boots and a calf length cream trench-coat, the brunette; the bag over her shoulder is old and worn and looks battle-scarred; it's stitched at one edge; there's a feather attached to the zip.

-

Returns to greet Dan and - "River, right?" - A gesture with her coffee, Kiara's dark eyes find the other woman. "Did your pants pull through?" Smilingly, a curl at the edge of her mouth.

River

She does take the invitation, does take a moment to order coffee- vanilla chai latte- waits with the kind of careful patience that one has to have when ordering nice coffee. It comes out in an avocado mug  with  a nice, open top. As though she were going to read tea leaves in her oversized beverage receptacle.

She turns around, catches a look at Kiara and smiles. Raises a hand and with a little wiggle of her fingers lets the woman know that, yes, she sees her. With the curve of her lips (full, unpainted, she lets the woman know that she is pleased to see her. The first person whose name she remembered in this city. A woman, most importantly, who wasn't going to hold a pair of ripped yoga pants against her because River can be a walking ball of embarrassment waiting to happen.

She sits down, "Aaaand... Kiara?"

Waits for confirmation.

Did your pants pull through?

And this is the part where her cheeks turn bright pink. She clears her throat, takes a long drink of her coffee-infused chai drink and she sets it down. Hands on her glass, "oh, uh... no? The yoga pants sleep with the fishes."

Dan

The tables are only so large, and his is more-or-less full.  The open portfolio (leather, quite as scarred as Kiara's bag) is closed with a neat sweep of his tattooed hand.  This glimpse of scrawled notes, a handful of suggestions of chord progressions, little more.  Then he folds up the Macbook and tucks both away in his own rather indispensible bag.  Battered black leather, a Ramones pin naturally skewered through one of the stresspoints to either hide or hold together the largest of the holes where the leather and its lining have worn-through.

Leaves his phone on the table, though, Dan.  He's waiting for a call.

Still gives them both a quick-wry-smirk, more for Kiara in that moment than for River - but that's familiarity, more than anything.  The function of it.  "There some particular reason you are throwing yoga-pants into the river?"  (Sleep with the fishes, see).  Gets a glimpse of River's frothy coffee-thing, "Is it the coffee you like in that, or the rest of it?"

Kiara

River's embarrassed and Kiara's smile grows a little at the edges. She's taken her coffee black - perhaps that says enough. Still, when she says the pants sleep with the fishes, there's a flash of sympathy there. She makes a soft noise of it as she finds a chair - maybe hooks in one from another table if room is too cramped - and settles in this flourish.

Bag hung over the back, legs neatly crossing at the knee. Those boots, which have rather a tendency toward complicated laces that criss-cross up the length and a zip that runs along the side - those are black too.

"Technically, it's all your fault, Dan." She begins with a pointed little lift of fine dark brows. "We were playing the game you started and River here went for a spectacular throw," River gets the benefit of Kiara's eyes, then. They tick over to her and she delivers this little wink with her mouth still edging that little flux of teasing humor before continuing, raising her coffee to her mouth to sip from it when she concludes.

"And gravity took offense to her prowess. And Alexander's, as it turned out."

A beat, she swallows. Contemplates Dan for a brief pull. "Hey, how's Sera?"

River

"The rest of it. I like chai, but I like chai that lives dangerously. I don't like the coffee aftertaste- espresso lollipops, jelly beans, tiramisu-" she makes a face, nose scrunches up and she shakes her head, "-I like covert coffee."

But there was the question fo the yoga pants, realizing she didn't really carefully dodge that particular question well enough, River clears her throat. Tried to think of a witty reply but, at the end of the day, she's not the best with witty repartee; she's average. Honesty is the best policy and she meanders to her point.

Kiara covers this rest of the story and here she is trying to hide behind her coffee cup but it wasn't working. So! The Euthanatos, who was supposed to be bestowed with the kind of dignity befitting a wheel turner, cleared her throat and relaxed. Or tried to relax and ended up cross her legs to keep from figiting too bad. "When I got home they had unraveled to the point of being leg warmers so... they have failed me for the last time."

Dan

"When gravity fucks you over - " he is not precisely laughing, but there is humor in his lengthy frame, skimming over his underlying - what is it.  Tension?  Something like it.  "Disbelieve."

Still though: the reference to the game, et cetera.  His gaze slides from Kiara to River and there is a different note: first seeking, then recognition.  One fits itself into the other, like a placing of puzzle pieces.  "That's where I've seen you before."

River is confessing to enjoying covert coffee then: so Dan does not suggest that next time she's here she try a plain, slow-poured something.  You're a coffee person on you aren't.  River doesn't seem to be.  Dan's so hipster it hurts, right?  But he's not an ass about it.

--

Then Hey, how's Sera?  flick of his gaze back to Kiara and something like hang-time there.  A second really, no more.  And it is not so much that tension asserts itself, as it is a lessening of his temporary ease.  "Tan, I suppose.  Last I heard from her, she was still in Thailand."

Kiara

The talk of coffee pulls at a thread of memory. Corona Street, not so long ago, but months, now. Kiara hadn't been in Denver so long and there was a party - Dan had quizzed her on her preferences and she remembers it now in that abstract, fuzzy-at-the-edges like an old photograph way:

(French press or drip?

Press.

Woman after my own heart)

There's some awareness of that time in Kiara's expression as she watches Dan and in the way her mouth adjusts itself into something a little less joyful. Just - aware. Not without concern, perhaps. Somewhere tied into it. "She does love the sun. Why am I not surprised?"

Then, simple: "If you hear from her, tell her I said I want a souvenir. Something cheap and ridiculous."

Maybe she's been letting River recover her dignity, but Kiara's eyes return to her, now. "How is your friend? I got the impression she wasn't totally sold on whether or not I planned to do something dastardly with you both the other night?"

Dan

His mouth quirks, Dan, this glimmer of affection, yeah, or maybe respect framing the edges of the expression, which is otherwise banked and closed but not shuttered.  "Will do."  is the only assurance he offers Kiara.

He appreciates, though, her circumspection.

And sentiment.

--

Hangs around a little while longer, more background than foreground.  Excuses himself to take a call not long after.  Steps away and outside, where he digs through pockets and pulls out a kretek.  Not a habit he indulges in much, except when Sera's around, but now he smokes it while he chats.

Later he might return.  If River or Kiara or both are still there, he might suggest that they meet up later.  Friend of his is playing at The Black Sheep - the set'll start about 10 if they're interested.

--

River

She does give the indication to Dan that she will be going to see the show. Seems on board.
--

"Farrah?" as though River had other friends, "oh, we're doing pretty well. We have a couch? We're settling in pretty nice; I found out that the apartment manager is letting us paint things. Farrah is a doctoral candidate, so anything that isn't studying or also studying is strictly off the table."

A gesture outward.

"We have a rule that someone has to buy us dinner before dastardly deeds happen."

Ian

[Awareness?]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 4, 5, 5, 7) ( success x 1 )

Kiara

Kiara doesn't commit, at least, not 100%, to the offer of going to see a band. She does offer enthusiasm for the idea of it, though. The way she shies away from instant confirmation gives this impression maybe she's got people to meet or just - things on. In that undefined way people sometimes do.

Their lives, this world, that gathering feeling; like tiny atoms starting to whirl together with intention; who knew. Who knows.

So, Dan departs and Kiara slides over into the chair he's left; it's still warm with the impression of him. Palms her coffee between her hands and cants this look outside; into the darkness. She's a healer, this woman, in tune with the other side perhaps in ways River is, too. The ripples and fluctuations around them - Kiara's focus lingers as long as it takes to note that one or two of the locals she'd seen gathered around that crime scene earlier have arrived for coffee.

There's something that sticks at her about it - the macabre fascination. The jangling reminder that sets her teeth aching. River's saying something, though. Doctoral candidate. Studying. Buy them dinner, first. That gets a curl of her lip. A gleam in her eyes. "I'll have to bear that in mind," she offers with a smile and then, her thumb thoughtfully stroking the edge of her cup. "I studied myself for a while. In another life."

She sits back. "How about you, student ... ?" She traces her eyes over River's form, as if to pick at the pieces of her whole.

River

She does watch Dan go. Peers over her shoulder and watches with a little smile on her face like she most assuredly appreciates the view and very, very cluelessly has no idea that she is not of the kind of person whose Dan's orientation traditionally lines up. But, still, it does nto stop a girl from looking and she takes a drink of her chai latte. Tastes the little hints of vanilla at the top of it, closes her eyes and smiles like this is a sensory experience that she was more than willing to embrace.

She puts the glass down.

Is she a student. Puts a hand up and shakes her head, "not right now. My bachelors is in applied performance- dance and urban planning."

River shakes her head again, takes a second to just observe Kiara and take in that Kiara is a lovely woman with lovely fashion sense. Takes in the people around her and shrugs. It's a quiet bit of pleasure on her face. Quiet and small and pleased to be in the middle of it all. The little sunshine creature, inhaling the people and waiting for the movement. Hesitates, because some part of her feels as though there should be the wind on her senses and there is nothing there. There is movement, but not the kind she hoped for (not the movement she dreaded, buried shallow.)

Ian

"I will never understand what it is you have against coffee." Emma sets her hip against the shop door and pushes it open, fixing Ian with a level gaze that suggests she has judged him and found something wanting. Her hair is loose tonight, long and softly layered, and she's wearing a pair of white shorts and calf-high brown leather boots with a dark burgundy sweater. Inside, the shop is warm and lit with this incandescent glow. It radiates out into the fall evening as Ian follows her inside.

"Coffee tries too hard. Tea has more nuance." Ian glances toward the bar, contemplating. He's wearing jeans and a white v-neck t-shirt and a fitted leather jacket with zippers on the sleeves and a high collar. For a moment his eyes stray to the textile art display, but when a familiar note of resonance catches his attention, he glances toward the table where Kiara and River are seated.

"Oh, is that what we're calling boring these days." Emma bumps him with her hip as she strides up to counter, and Ian gives the back of her head a little eye-roll before he abandons her. (See, they do this. She'll find him when she's ready.) He approaches the table with this little half-secretive flicker of a smile - just turned up at one side of his mouth. When he arrives he sets his hands on the table, looks between River and Kiara, smiles a little wider (a little more open, warm, flirtatious) and says "Mind if I join you?"

Kiara

It's a layered thing, of course. With the brunette but honestly - it's the same with each of them. The Verbena's appeal wrapped up in that energy she carries with her, in the way she paints her eyes and mouth these arresting, bold colors.

The manner her hair seems almost to possess a will of its own, some thick, wavy halo with a definite inclination toward sliding and curling around the female's shoulders and neck. It's a layered thing - Kiara feels (and if you look for it, appears) like the earth witch she is. With those bright, electric smiles and those long lashed gazes she settles on you at any given moment.

River feels like the tickle of sunshine playing over your skin and together like they are - workers of the cycle both, in their ways - they feel like interlocking pieces; cogs in the wheel. Fostering and encouraging life.

She knows what River is, now. There are questions on the tip of her tongue, curiosity. A thousand unspokens, but she settles for: "Is that why you came to Denver? For a job?" There's always more to it, of course. Other reasons, less - mundane ones. There's a hint of that too, in the brunette's voice before her eyes travel over River's shoulder to the door.

Just this tiny catch at the edge of Kiara's mouth before they tick back. "I know another person who you might be interested to meet, actually."

That primal energy grows bolder, stalks the edges of that bright, rejuvenating bubble their table has formed. Sets a pair of hands on the table and the Verbena doesn't look at Ian for a little, sliding moment but she addresses his presence with a flash of teeth. "He's a dancer, too. Ian." There's a play of something familiar; warm and intimate in dark eyes.

The curve of her mouth. "Meet River."

Mind if I join you?

A chair squeaks; Kiara's foot nudges it out with casual, wordless aplomb as she picks her coffee back up and takes a measured sip.

River

She offers a sad, but apologetic smile. Something that meets her eyes every-so-quietly as mournful. Strange, really, to think the Chakravanti as mournful creatures, those so well acquainted with death, but there she is. A little smile, a little apology in that smile. Her hands stay on her glass. "There were some changes in San Diego and it was best that Farrah and I had a change of scenery."

Nuanced, you see, is the word for that. She exhales harshly, then looks at Kiara, "I didn't mean to bring the mood down."

But that energy changes and Kiara flashes her teeth, content to leave the rest of the problems aside, brush them under the rug or wrap them up in a tarp and bury them in some desert. She seems to know this man, and River smiles. Stands up because you stand when new people arrive at the table. Offers a hand.

"It's nice to meet you," and offers her hand to whomever else may be with him, because she is polite. She sounds a little like some telanovella actress.

Ian

River offers him her hand and he takes it with a relaxed gesture. Casual but... there's a curious spark in his dark eyes when he looks at her. "And you."

He does this thing with the chair: picks it up and flips it around so he can sit leaning with his arms folded. The fabric of his jeans hugs the muscles in his legs in a way that seems to reaffirm Kiara's statement. He does, in fact, have the physique of a dancer. A ballet dancer, more specifically. For that matter, so does Emma. Kiara is surrounded by dancers. Some people might find that intimidating. Kiara, though, is not some people.

Ian rests forward against the back of the chair and gives Kiara a lingering, quiet look. Something about it feels a little intimate. "What style do you do?" This is for River, but it takes Ian a half-second to turn his head and realign his attention. When he does, he lifts his eyes in an interested expression. It's been awhile since he met another dancer who was Awake.

Emma, of course, is not. She doesn't resonate the way the others at the table do. But she has her own kind of presence. When she gets her drink, she eyes Ian across the room and gives this little huff of dry amusement. Almost as if to say: typical. She takes her time joining them though, spends a moment glancing at something on her phone before she walks over and pulls up another chair from a neighboring table. She doesn't quite sit with them so much as near them, leaning back with one leg crossed over the other and a mug of coffee in her hands.

"I remember you," she offers to Kiara, a little smile of wry recognition touching her elegant features. "You had that lovely ruby necklace."

"Emma, this is River and Kiara. Everyone, Emma." Ian gestures between the three as he makes introductions.

Kiara

There were some changes in San Diego and it was best that Farrah and I had a change of scenery.

Something about that catches the brunette's attention. Arrests it, you might even say. She's swallowing a mouthful of coffee and Ian is rearranging his chair in this deft, complicated little maneuver that she doesn't react to so intently that she must be accustomed, in some regard, to it being a commonplace method of Ian settling down.

There's a certain betrayed familiarity between these two, the shared glances, the way the Verbena for her part, doesn't move over to give herself space from this newcomer who feels like some elegant predator in the wild, all that supple, fluid strength. "I understand how that goes. New York." Kiara's eyes are compassionate; there's a warmth there, an offering accompanied with a give of her red mouth.

"That's - for me," a wrist motions at herself; the collection of bracelets she wears slide together in a delicate harmony. "It was - I had to leave. With my - a friend." River stands when Ian and Emma arrive and Kiara - doesn't, but then there's something deliberate to that, too. She's at her ease with these newcomers; tilts her face and meets Ian's lingering look with something contained and sweet, at the edges.

Her hand brushes his arm; she leaves it there, just shy of it.

Emma remembers her (or her necklace, more directly) and Kiara's expression shifts to one of pleased surprise. "Oh, yeah. Yeah. That's - it was a gift, actually. I don't get many chances to wear it but the evening seemed like it called for its debut."

A beat, she considers Emma. "It was an amazing show. I'd never seen anything quite like it."

River

She does not give too much thought between the looks and familiarity that Ian and Kiara share. Does not think about their proximity or anything of the sort because she does not know them. In truth, River doesn't know much about anyone in this story, in this town, in this giant play of theirs. She is merely someone in the background, someone with a few lines who comes in and delivers them only to exit on stage left. No one thinks much of the man who walks into the carnage of Hamlet, who says the sight is dismal. The Ambassador.

No, they think of Fortenbras. No, they think of Hamlet. They think of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern and how they had died because of that funny little play where someone made them into real, breathing men. No one thought of the Ambassador. River was that ambassador, though, so devoted to her part. Studied her lines and said them with pride, took in the players on the stage and was pleased to be graced with their presence because the curtains may go up and down as they please but she was there. She was on the stage with them. She was welcome.

She does not think of intimacy, her appeal is that she is unavailable and soon enough she is out of a situation where she can leverage this. Kiara says that they have something in common, the main player to the Ambassador. She has this sort of problem, that she had to leave- fled her lands away from her play and found herself, less Hamlet and perhaps more Falstaff. Alas, her life is no comedy. Though they have funny parts.

But, perhaps she is Falstaff; Kiara seems to be good-natured. Seems to be of good-humor, perhaps a pure sensualist. She does not know her well enough to perform a character study but she smiles like she understands, smiles at Kiara like she cares about her stilted words and the things that cause them. Does not speak to them, though. Not in mixed company, not in front of others because those stories are not those River herself wishes to share.

The Ambassador has his own story, you see. Not one Shakespeare penned but one by the actor, one that spoke only to the performer, unique every time.

Ian asks what she performs, what kind of dance she does and she straightens up, brightens.

"Modern jazz," she replies with a happy smile. Her muscle structure is different, but expectedly so she's not terribly endowed in the cleavage department. Enough to make a shirt interesting, but not enough to cause back problems. Which, of course, caused a few problems in her current line of work, but we certainly digress. "Mostly modern jazz. I will choreograph hiphop routines if someone asks nicely."

Nicely, she says. Nicely, because if someone does not ask nicely River will not choreograph them anything and that is that and you can go take your dancing business elsewhere. Harumph.

Ian

It's impossible for him not to be aware of how close Kiara's hand is. The way she brushes his arm. Emma notices it too, see. Because she knows Ian, and she's an observant creature (it takes an observant person to be able to really know him.) There's a moment where her eyes linger on the two of them before shifting to take in Kiara. When she looks at Ian again, there is this subtle glimmer in her eyes, but she lets it go. Kiara compliments them on the show and Emma smiles against the lip of her coffee mug. She takes a careful sip before replying.

"Thank you. I hope you come to the next one."

River, as it happens, is a jazz dancer. Ian offers her what feels like a sympathetic smile when she says it. "That takes dedication." Jazz is hard to get jobs with, these days (not that ballet is easy - or any form of dance for that matter.) Ian doesn't explicitly mention that, but it is perhaps implied. "Emma and I are in a contemporary ballet group."

Emma offers a sound of agreement at that. "We're having auditions next Spring if you feel like switching genres." A beat and she asks, "Do you have any shows coming up? I try to see as much of the competition as I can." Her smile there curls up into a teasing, wryly flirtatious thing.

Kiara

Her life is no comedy but there must be traces woven in there somewhere.

A respite, however brief, from the enduring tragedy that seems wound around the Verbena (around all of them, in truth) like serpents that devoured themselves only to begin anew. There's certainly moments - moments where they can simply be - no more or less than anyone else around them, milling at the edges of the cafe, admiring the artwork on the walls and discussing colors and contextual themes and the way black and white, light and shadow have been inverted just so - but there is, like a drop of ink in water.

A stain that spreads and colors it.

They are not constrained (or fortunate enough) to be the players of parts they can shuck off; not for good.

Still (of course), discussion can (and does) turn to jazz and the pagan contents herself like a lounging cat at a chaise with settling and listening to it, her fingers curled into her cup and her face attuned to the cadence of the conversation; the rise and fall of voices.

("I suppose that depends if I'm invited," she does offer to Emma at one point, with a tiny gleam of humor, her eyes drifting to Ian's face and then back. "But I'd love to.")

There's a dish broken at some point and the shatter of the china seems to unweave Kiara's focus; it slips back; snaps back and she straightens her spine a little against her chair; the constrains of a frown pinching at the edge of her lips. Her fingers curling ever so slightly firmer around the cup in her hand. It's just dregs now.

She picks it up as she scoots her chair back.

"While you compare notes, I'm going to get another drink." There's a subtle curl of wry humor to the way she adds: "Since I'm the only one who can't claim ungodly measures of flexibility."

River

Ian knows, and likely Emma knows, dance jobs are hard to come by. Especially for women (or anyone, really)- there's tons of people who have been doing this since they could walk and only a finite number of spots. Even being as trim as she is, there was a chance someone could tell River she was too heavy or didn't have the right physique or that she wasn't tall enough (River Vasquez was never going to be a Rockette).

They're in a contemporary ballet group and her face lights up as though she is delighted, because she is delighted. Takes her hands away from her cup to lace them together in front of her. River's voice is animated, and she wears her delight rather openly at that. Sunshine, persistent rays of springtime that poke through. It shines in her countenance.

"I could be coaxed into conquering my fear of pointe," she tells Emma. props her tongue briefly against one of her canines while she thinks about whether or not she has and shows. River shakes her head, "right now, the competition mostly does yoga in the park and applies feverishly for jobs. I got to town... last week? This week?"

She wobbles her hands back and forth, makes a little nyehhhhh noise, as though this would make the time frame make sense.  Kiara does make her laugh, though, "then come do yoga with me! I promise, even if you have a desk job I can do it at lunch."

Ian

That crash makes Ian glance in the direction of the noise. The response is almost animalistic - the way his attention snaps instantly to alertness. But it's just a broken dish, and the moment passes quickly enough. Kiara's reaction isn't much different, and Ian's hand goes out to tough hers briefly, settling on her wrist before she gets to her feet. She makes a comment about flexibility and he glances up at her.

"You're plenty flexible." To his credit, he lets the innuendo fall subtly - by insinuation more than tone. His eyes follow her as she moves, feeling the pulse of her resonance drift away, and perhaps he watches longer than he strictly needs to. But only a little.

Then his focus is back on River. "Ah, you really are new. You know if you like I could probably introduce you to some people. I know a lot of the choreographers in Denver. Don't know who's auditioning right now but... connections never hurt."

Kiara

You're plenty flexible.

Her fingers slide across the edge of his jacket in response; all those zips and the give of the fabric; she tugs gently at one of them; the metal teeth giving a few tiny inches. "You're plenty biased." If she's aware that Ian's friend is likely watching this interplay, that River might be too, in the unconcerned manner strangers did one another - she doesn't give any impression of it.

Her fingers brush over the bare skin at the back of his neck, but River is laughing and that and the way it seems to magnify that wonderful, warming sense of her, all that bright, infectious delight. Kiara's eyebrows draw together and she gives a rather impish, nose wrinkled, dimple in cheek face at the prospect of herself doing Yoga.

"There's an image. I do run, though. In Washington Park a few times a week. My schedule is," she laughs, has to, really, because: "Flexible like that. I work out of my apartment." She drifts off, then. When she returns its with a fresh cup and saucer; steam dancing from the surface.

She doesn't state what exactly it is she does, but there's an ease as she re-settles herself; crosses her legs and insinuates herself back into the conversation, twisting the handle on her cup around in a clockwise motion until she's satisfied with its angle and then collects it up; sipping and leaving a red imprint at the rim.

"You know I have a regular who comes in for realignment. She's a dancer at a local community theatre." A little smile, her dark eyes tick up to River's. "I could ask her if she knows of anything going."

River

Her cheeks are pink for a different reason. People are offering to introduce her to people, people are opening up and being nice and she- new girl with her obvious new girl aura- does not seem to know what to do aside from take in the woman of the earth and the man who was at once feral and elegant. Kiara is intriguing, Ian seems nice, Emma is... Emma is worthy of watching and offering coffee to and pouring over her finer details.

"Thank you," she says it like she means it. SOmething she learned from her mentor- say things that you mean.

Something makes a little chirpy noise on her phone. It is most assuredly a chirp and the young woman with the gigantic purse dives into her myster Mary Poppins purse and retrieves a cell phone. It's making little chirps and tweets and River, with her mouth curved up to the side, doesn't quite seem know how to make it stop so she pushes the home button two or three times before it finally shuts up.

She sighs, looks relieved. Dives back into the purse and retrieves a piece of paper and a pen. Scribbles her phone number- her handwriting is like the kind of cursive Victorian women wrote love letters in. Meant to be beautiful, and so it was made so by will and intention.

"I would love that," she looks at her phone again, "but I have to get to a job interview? Maybe we can meet up again? I'm leaving you all my number, just... text with your name? So I know who you are?"

Because, clearly, River was not very good with technology.

She is getting her things together, getting ready to leave before she gives a small wave, takes her chai latte with her because she's drinking it quickly, hoping it's gone tepid. Interview should be quick and then she can make the show with Dan, right? Black Sheep.

Ian

You're plenty biased.

He does let slip a smile at that, though he manages to keep any further thoughts on the matter to himself. Emma, meanwhile, takes in the way Kiara's fingers slide over the back of Ian's neck. Takes in the way they look at each other. In some respects, it isn't anything she hasn't seen before. But if it were only those things she noticed, her attention would not linger the way it does.

Still, she's interested in River. River who is new and pretty and something of a puzzle. (Emma likes puzzles, see. It's why she's friends with Ian.) So her attention comes back to the other dancer and hovers there while she sips her coffee. She's about to make an offer of her own (because why should Ian have all of the fun?) when River gets a call. There's some scrambling, and when River writes her number down, Emma is first to pick up the paper, offering River a lovely, lingering smile. "We'll do that."

Ian glances at Emma and smirks, but doesn't say anything. "Have a good night," he offers to River. When she's gone, he takes the number from Emma and enters it into his phone.

Kiara

"That I think I can manage." Kiara offers with that same, engaging hook of a smile she's had on offer most of the night. "Maybe we can have dinner. You can bring Farrah." River's gathering her things, then and getting ready to leave and Emma is flirting by way of a farewell and there's this particular way Kiara smiles down into her coffee cup; swirling the dark contents that reads she's finding that privately entertaining.

She likely understands, too. In another time, in another place - well, River feels like sun-drenched comfort.

The Verbena folds the slip of paper into her pocket when the others are done with it and turns her focus to watch the other woman depart; there's a sense that in the aftermath, in the way her expression lingers somewhat in the directions the evening has unspooled around them, she'd offer something a little more personal, a private observation to the man beside her, but - "She seems sweet, doesn't she?" - it's idle, instead.

A casual observation with some degree of awareness articulated beneath it. For the fact there were newcomers, despite everything. She lets out a quiet breath, a quick exhale and her face (and body) twists toward Ian and, by extension, Emma.

"Dan invited everyone out to see a band later," her fingers find the edge of her cup and trace along the edge. "Apparently Sera is overseas," in lieu of explaining why it was just Dan and not Sera-and-Dan, as so often seemed to be the case. "It could be fun."

A beat, Kiara's eyes travel over Ian's face, tick to Emma. She allows a touch of that humor to surface again. "River might be there."

River

"I'll ask her," she tells Kiara, gives a little wave and, with that, she dashes off with herself.

Ian

She seems sweet, doesn't she?

Ian gives the matter a moment of consideration. There's a light tip of his head. A thoughtful expression. He can't say what he wants to say around Emma, so instead he says, "I'll reserve judgment, but she seems nice enough."

"Ian likes complicated women," Emma offers, and there's a lick of veiled amusement in her tone. Perhaps a little insinuating. Ian glances at her and raises an eyebrow, to which she just smiles. "And we actually have to be at a friend's birthday party shortly. Unless he's planning on ditching me, which... I would not put past him."

"When was the last time I did that?"

"Six months ago, when you made me catch a cab home from that gallery because a cute boy wanted a ride."

"Okay, I remember that, and for the record you told me it was fine."

Emma gives this mock offended exhale, but it doesn't linger long. Ian takes the moment to look back at Kiara. "To be honest, I'm not sure he'll want me there." Dan is not Sera, of course, and Ian knows that. It's possible he has his own opinions (or none at all) about Ian's character, but he's also one of Sera's best friends. And birthday parties aren't the sort of obligation one can skip out on without it looking at least a little bit dickish. "And I really shouldn't miss this. Shannon would probably be kind of annoyed."

He stands up slowly, giving Emma time to finish her coffee. When he leans into Kiara's space he whispers, "I'll see you soon though." There's a shadow of regret in his voice. For a moment he looks as though he'll leave it there, but then he closes the gap to kiss her. If Kiara allows it, he'll linger there, cupping her face with his hands.

Emma politely looks down into her coffee cup and doesn't say anything.

Kiara

Ian likes complicated women.

There's a certain way Kiara reacts to that, it's subtle, at best. Just this edge to her smile, the way it curves into something a little less openly amused; a little self aware, perhaps. Her chin lowers and she's smiling again into her coffee cup.

"Does he now."

Quiet, contained. Her eyebrows betraying her as they rise and she can't resist shooting him a look to weigh the exchange; to observe the camaraderie that evidently exists between the two dancers. To be honest, he starts and Kiara's eyes remain on his face as he offers the reasoning why he shouldn't go, why it would be an unwelcome intrusion.

There's a spill of disappointment in Kiara's eyes; tipped in around her mouth as it pulls into a little grimace of understanding; memory of his confession. "Yeah. You should go. I get it." And for all the ways she seems a little regretful for his impending absence in her evening - her tone is sincere. She understands (she always does). When he rises, her eyes follow that progress too and she tilts her face up and smiles into the catch of their mouths coming together.

He cups her face and she reaches up and briefly slides her fingers over the base of his neck, plays with the fine hairs at the nape and rubs at his lower lip as they part; her lipstick ever so slightly smeared. It adds to the trace of wildness about Kiara Woolfe as she whispers: "Yeah, you will. Get going."

Then, to Emma, as she pushes her cup away, spent. "Keep him in line for me. Don't let him ditch you."