Storytime

Who: Angelo and Lenore
Where: One More Round
When: Late

"In those first of days, which was so very fine?" Angelo said to the crowd from his seat on the small stage at the back of the Round, "Well, wasn't nothin' but the purity, people. The whole world, an everythin' in it, we all had that feelin' like we'd just woke up. Slow smiles, a tremor in your fingers, a wobble in your feet that you know is trouble but it feels so good..." He grinned into the microphone set up before him, drinking in the steady rise and fall of bass notes from one side and the low, almost skittish tempo of the drums behind him.

It had been a good night, despite the lack of their sometimes-singer, the Shrouded Angel. People had showed up anyway, and if they'd been disappointed, Angelo couldn't tell. Of course, even if they had been, he wouldn't have put much thought into it in the moment. There was a task at hand, the one he loved so much every time he had the chance: he had to finish the show. It was getting late, he knew; still a while before last call but late enough that the patrons who came here for entertainment would likely leave soon. They'd brave the rain, conjure up enough determination to sleep, knowing they'd have to face another day in the city. And for his part, Angelo liked to give them something to think on at least for the trip home, if not the next day.

"Now as we drank in that pureness? Breathed it in, gave it back, perpetuated a cycle so beautiful that maybe we din' need nothin' more? Hell, we see what happened every day in this city, my good people. Maybe it was jus' one of us, maybe it was all of us, but someone decided they wanted that feel all to themselves." He fell silent as the bass thrummed to life, head bobbing in time with it even as Angelo raised his trumpet. He leaned back, coaxing velvety notes from the horn that ran an undercurrent to the heavier bass, weaving a short melody that was intense in it's brevity. "That was the first secret, people," Angelo murmured back into the microphone, "An' like I said, maybe we all had it. But whoever did, whoever didn't? Wasn't no stoppin' what came next."

He bent low to one side, plucking up a glass that waited by his foot and taking a drink, staggering and swaying to the music of his bandmates. "Even if no one knew what the secret was, each of us knew it was there. Cuz where there'd been only bliss, only the sight of what each of us is an' will be? There was shadows, for the first time," Angelo explained with a thoughtful smile, "All at once, we started to get 'em, each one growin' darker with a secret. And I don' say all secrets was bad, follow? Just that we knew they was there."

He let his gaze sweep across the crowd slowly, the dark and indistinct figures; some watching him, some waving for new drinks, some gathering their things to depart already. "Maybe someone thought they din' want to see their lover today... their shadow grew. P'raps they was ashamed for their fellows, for what was slippin' through our fingers, their shadows grew. Cuz a shadow... it ain't solid, it ain't real. S'just a silhouette, a reminder that each of us carries somethin' with them. An' even if everyone they meet can see it, can get the idea that it's there? Can't grasp somethin' that's got no substance."

Without really needing to be told, he could hear the change in tempo that said the others were winding down in their improvisation. That suited Angelo just fine, really. "So... maybe that's why this city gets so dark sometimes. Maybe we deal easier with each other when we don' see the shadows, don' wonder what's in 'em. Me? I'm thinkin' someday I'd like to meet someone who ain't got one, jus' for kicks." A final hiss from the snare hung in the room as Angelo sat back, giving a moment for the stage light to come up before he leaned back into the microphone. "Thanks for puttin' up with us, y'all. We's Angel and the Seraphim, an' we appreciate it. Travel safe, wherever you headin'," he said, finally hopping up from his stool and moving for the bar in search of a new drink.

Lenore didn't exactly fit in with the rest of the crowd at One More Round. She was very clean for one thing, dressed in a modest grey dress that clung to her waist and swooped out at the knee. And she'd been nursing the same glass of vinegary red wine all night, as opposed to chucking back beers like there was no tomorrow. Definitely not the same class of person that the bar was used to, but she didn't attract much unwanted attention. Maybe the odd glance in her direction, but apparently she was not judged offensive to anyone's drunken sensibilities. Also - there was the fact she was sitting up straight, alone, her attention fixed very firmly on the band, smiling small and genuine. She just didn't warrant much interest.

The fact was that Lenore did not come here often, and when she did it was not to pay attention to anything other than the Seraphim. The Angel could sing, of course she could, but all covered in shadow like that she held very little real interest to Lenore. She lacked the sparkle of life - she could have been anyone. To Lenore she seemed like a bit of a gimmick. And there was nothing gimmicky about the sweet rambling beatnik who played perfect jazz and spilled stories like water. Lenore liked stories. She liked the flavour of the humanity in them.

Once the set was finished and the storyteller who had so caught her attention all night slipped off stage, Lenore abandoned her table and her cheap wine and moved fluidly towards him. She hadn't ever bothered before - early morning shifts or late night jobs had distracted her, or she hadn't been able to spot him, but she felt that as someone who came to see him play on a semi-regular basis, she ought to give her thanks. It was a common decency to be grateful for the good things.

She followed him to the bar and rested her elbows on the sticky wood next to him. Leaning forwards slightly she tipped her head and examined him. He looked as you would expect someone tied up in dreams to look. Something in the cut of his jaw and the shine of his eyes. He wasn't looking at her, but she spoke anyway. Lenore rarely bothered with small talk and introductions.
"The only thing I wonder," Lenore stated in her steady, soothing tone, "about shadows and secrets, is that if you think people were happier without them? All that light could get dreadfully blinding."

He still wasn't looking her way when she spoke, elbows on the bar and his head hanging as Angelo waited on his new drink. He normally got a couple on the house when he performed, and even if he wasn't much of a drinker, he never turned down something that was free. Angelo smiled a lot, but he'd never learned how to do it any way but completely genuinely. So the smile that stretched his lips and bunched his cheeks when Lenore spoke was completely sincere, warm even if it was aimed at the bar.

His head rolled slightly her way, eyes lighting up as he got his first good look at someone completely new to him. Meeting people was always a joy to Angelo, a chance to study the details that added up to so much more than their sum should be. "Can't say if we'd be happier," he drawled, straightening up without moving his gaze from Lenore, "But my eyes do appreciate a rest now an' then. An maybe it's just a story? Hell, I'm pretty sure it is. But even if it wasn't, I'm not thinkin' perpetual bliss can hold steady forever. So maybe we's supposed to have our shadows."

Lenore chuckled softly, taking genuine pleasure from his response and the size of his smile.
"Good answer. I think shadows can get a harder time than they deserve. I don't think there's ever such a thing as just a story though. They've got more power than most people would care to admit to. And I always enjoy yours immensely."
It was not flattery, she spoke in a casual way that was simply stating honest fact rather than trying to smooth-talk him. Her eyes met his and she studied the contours of his face unabashedly. He didn't look any different here in smoke-filled close proximity than he did on stage, really. Maybe the slight hollows in his cheeks were more noticeable, but nothing major.

'And I always enjoy yours immensely'... Was she a fan? That would be a first, to Angelo's knowledge. He knew the music was sound, but it was unconventional enough that he didn't think it would ever quite catch on. Still, Lenore seemed to decry that assumption, and that fascinated him. "Miss, I think you jus' may be the first," Angelo said after a moment, returning her scrutiny without trying to hide it. He felt a bit strange, being on the receiving end of such study for once, but he wasn't going to squirm under it.

"An' if you ask me? Well... every tale starts out as just a story, right? But if it's a good one, if it resonates with people, it gets told again. It feels personal, intimate, familiar, an' that's what lets it transcend. I only ever tell mine once... not sure I'll ever hear 'em again." He chuckled in a velvety tone, blinking in realization as he claimed his drink in one hand and offered Lenore the other. "Sorry, forgive a man the habit of jawin'. Angelo Lacoste, but I'm thinkin' you knew that."

Lenore absorbed the man's facial expressions as he spoke, her own slipping back to it's usual solemnity. Someone had once told Lenore she looked like a frowning toddler, but she couldn't remember who it had been. She liked watching Angelo talk, however, so she didn't dwell on it. He was somewhat different when he wasn't performing, she saw that now. He seemed less sure of himself, and the things that he said backed that up as much.

"Just because I'm the first to say anything doesn't mean I'm the first to enjoy what you do. You have more confidence when you're up there," she said, waving a dismissive hand at the stage, "You should keep it down here, it suits you. I'm Lenore. If you like, I'll tell your stories to the people I work with. Although I doubt you'd hear them back from any of them."
She slipped her small, very white hand, into his dark one, and gave a firmer handshake than someone of her stature should be able to. She meant it about sharing the stories with the people she worked with. Patients or clients, either way, they needed the soothing.

He heard her as Lenore spoke, as she chided him in that soothing tone about his confidence. But he didn't seem to show it initially, not as Angelo's mind fixed on the tactile sensation of her hand in his. There were curious spots of rough skin here and there, nearly imperceptible against his own artist's calluses, but he could feel them all the same. Angelo sucked in a small breath, gentle and mindful as he turned her hand and his from side to side, studying the way they fit together and the stark contrast of their skin tones.

"Confidence is a slippery beast," he murmured, looking back up to Lenore's eyes and gently releasing her hand, "Think you got a grip on it and too late you realize you holdin' a handful of arrogance, then it's holdin' you, trippin' you up. Still... maybe I oughta catch a lil' bit." Angelo's eyes sparkled with amusement for a moment as he said as much, knowing she was right. Too often he played the part of the meek or submissive man, after all. It was how he survived. "Lenore? It's a treat, this moment right here. Thanks for creatin' it," Angelo complimented, grinning at her again, "An' if you think a story fits a moment you find yourself in? Share it, think I'd like knowin' you did so, miss Lenore."

She didn't mind that he seemed to examine her hand as they shook, it was something she herself would have done, in fact it barely registered as odd. What was the point of a handshake, if not to gauge how another person touched you? Every interaction was about that on some level, so you may as well be honest about it. She was curious about Angelo. He seemed very real to her. Laughing brightly at his compliment she tipped her head and kept their gazes locked. She wanted to find the thing she wasn't seeing behind his eyes.

"I highly doubt you need to worry about being arrogant, the very fact you say that should tell you as much. Arrogant men believe themselves modest. I've met enough to know that," and it was true, she had been surrounded by arrogant men from an early age. Enough to pick up some of the arrogance herself, but only a touch. "You're very interesting, you know that? Telling stories for a living and yet you don't seem to be a liar. Hard balance to achieve."
She reached up and traced a finger down the bridge of his nose, very gently. She'd was drawn to his face and she wanted to touch it - like moth to flame - there was nothing flirtatious behind the gesture.

Whatever response Angelo had been on the verge of died on his lips as Lenore's finger brushed along his nose, and as much as he protested mentally, it was distracting enough to make his eyes flutter shut and his lips curl in a surprised smile. Plenty of people in this city would react poorly to such a gesture, but those people didn't have friends like Calix who saw the world in truly unusual ways. So he held still, grinning in her direction and opening his eyes when he felt Lenore's finger slip past the tip of his nose. Deep brown eyes regarded her quizzically, fascinated by this surprise encounter with a woman who seemed very much an anomaly in this city.

"I'd guess that everybody's interestin' to someone who's not them," he mused without lingering on her touch, "It's the joy of perspective, or maybe the sorrow of it. Like, say you, an' the difference 'tween here an' there." He paused for a moment, winking at Lenore and gesturing at each of their respective seats. "Wonderin' what you see, how different it is from what I see, if you love to listen to a rain storm when I hide under my sheets at the sound of thunder. Not that I do, mind you." Quirking his lips for a moment before he took a drink, Angelo decided that he needed to paint. Not to paint Lenore specifically, but she'd inspired him to capture some sort of this essence on the canvas. "An' in my own experience? Balance is hard if you try. Me? I just don't pay it much thought. Decided a long time back I wouldn't tell no tale I knew was untrue, an' that's good enough for me."

Lenore found herself a little stuck for words for a moment. He probably had no idea how right he was. How she found every single life interesting and special, just because it wasn't hers. Because life was so magical and it could be snuffed out at any moment. One nod of the head and there was a knife in your neck, and the person holding the handle was probably her. So yes, you had to be interested in life while you had it. Else there was no point.

"If you want to know what I see, well, I see someone who is far wiser than I think they realise. Someone who knows how precious all the little moments are. That's what being alive is. The joy in the perspective of others." She stated this quite calmly, almost as if she was telling him what kind of laundry soap she liked to use, but there was something a little different in her posture perhaps that suggested how pleased she was to be having this conversation. The subtleties in her calm demeanour were numerous.

"I don't hide from the thunder, either. I don't hide from anything that can't hurt me. Especially not something so wonderful as thunder."

Little shifts weren't ever lost on Angelo, he was the sort of man who frequently wore blinders through his life. The moment he engaged in a conversation, saw something new, heard a song that caught his ear? Everything else ceased until that solitary experience ended. So while he may not have known Lenore was pleased, he knew she was at least as engaged by this as he was. And whether she was trying or not, her praise drew a laugh of embarassment from Angelo. "Never quite could decide if I liked thunder or lightnin' more, but both's good ways to humble a man," he mused, "And that's the sorta decision I think you alluding to, yeah? Details 'bout me that form perspective, right?" Teeth showed whitely in his smile for a moment as Angelo raised his glass in salute to Lenore. "Congrats," he told her, "You jus' nailed down why I do what I do without me havin' to explain it. Think you're the first for that too."

Lenore nodded serenely. Thunder was a good thing. The sky opening and roaring forth all it's demons. But that was not the case at hand. She wanted to know more about Angelo. It was so rare for her to be with someone who was actually living that she wanted to drink it in.
"I do try to be observant, or perhaps we're just similar people," Lenore doubted that, but there were degrees to similarity and she would be willing to concede he might be a couple closer to her than most, "Anyway, this town, it's a town of stories. I doubt you'd ever run out. But what's yours? Storytellers don't just spring from nowhere."

Angelo smiled slow and soft, taking a light sip of his drink. That was an unexpected question, one he didn't hear very often at all. "Once upon a time..." he said with a teasing wink, "There was a boy din't no one want. An' after the sisters at the orphanage an' a few part-time parents all got tired? He decided the only person who had to want him was him." He leaned down onto the bar again, head drooping as he tilted it to keep Lenore's gaze held. "All I ever needed was to know how to blow a horn, cook myself a meal, splash some paint on a canvas. An' I got all that, so... the time the rest a'these folk spend thinkin' 'bout they jobs? They cars? They whatever they think 'bout to tune out the grey? This man spends that time wonderin' what used to be, then he takes the change and tells whoever'll listen."

Lenore could very much relate. Orphans in this town, however, were two a penny, so she was not too surprised. A city of lost children who didn't know who their eyes and smile were inherited from. So many of them stuck in the betrayal of dead Mothers and absent Fathers. Lenore had realised early on it was no good worrying who her 'real' parents were, though. The answers would come when she met Death head on, and everything flickered before her vision like a movie-reel. But Lenore knew who made her. She built herself from experience and survival and hard-knocks. God built her and gave her her talents and her calling. That was all the background she felt she needed. This however, she did not relate to Angelo. There was no point in hashing over war wounds from their respective Orphanages. That was all past, and Lenore was interested in the now.

"You paint? You sure are a mine of interesting talents," she said, smiling slightly. She didn't doubt he painted beautifully and she found herself with a perfect visual of the poverty-stricken Jazz musician come artist in his shady loft apartment splattered in paint redder than blood, and it was a sweet image. All stark lines and passion. "Do you sell many?"

His head hung with the question, though not from despair. Angelo was smiling down at his feet as he shook his head, raising a hand and displaying three fingers in answer to Lenore's question. He'd sold one this year to Elle, and that seemed nearly on par with the last few years of his life. Not that he was surprised; Angelo's paintings were abstract and nuanced, and as often as not those who saw them read entirely different intent than what he put in. "Not a whole lotta market for what I turn out," he eventually said, shrugging, "Figure I still got a year or two 'fore my place fills up, so who knows? Jus' might sell another one this year. What 'bout you, though?" His head raised with the question, the smile intact and aimed squarely at Lenore. "What do you use to fill the hours?"

Lenore laughed again, but not cruelly. She admired the honesty, and the lack of shame that went with it. Three wasn't bad, really, considering what kind of a town this was. Too harsh for dreamers.
"Three's respectable. Better than none. And if the point is to paint them and not to sell them, then it's even less important. I'd like to see your work sometime. I like art. I sort of collect it," she faltered slightly, wondering if taxidermy and antique scissors and razors counted as 'art' to anyone but her, "well. Art's a loose term, isn't it? Still, I'd be interested."

She wrinkled her nose slightly at the question of what she did. She'd been hoping they could just talk about him. But with all they had discussed she knew it was silly - their curiosity would obviously be mutual.
"This and that," she said, her tone thoughtful, pondering how to word it. Just saying 'nurse' would be a cop out, and there was nobody who you could drop the phrase assassin on if you valued not being in prison, "Mostly I'm a nurse. I think people find me soothing. They don't scare me, you see, the dying. They just need a hand to hold."

That was a curious bit of insight, but one that was fitting. She was soothing; attentive and personal. Angelo imagined that there'd be far worse people to have with you at the end than someone with Lenore's apparent patience. "S'pretty selfless," he commented, nodding approvingly, "Not the sorta work someone takes to be rollin' in green, right? So... good on you. Think we got enough people in this here 'burg lookin' to line their pockets however they can." His drink was nearly gone, by now just a glass to toy with to resist the urge to study her hands more tactiley. "But you said mostly? So... what else? Share with a fella an' I think I could get you a peek at my gallery. I know some people," Angelo said with a playful smile.

"I don't know about selfless. That implies it's distasteful somehow, and I enjoy it. As for the mostly..." she trailed off and narrowed her eyes at him, scrutinizing the lines of his face once again. He had such an honest face, almost with a child-like quality. He was attractive, too. She wondered how he would react if she just put it out there, that she killed people. But no, the time for that conversation was not right. It took a certain level of trust to bring up her "secret identity".

She realised she had paused for a little too long, so she simply smiled and brushed her hands through her hair, pulling it away from her face in a motion of concentration "Oh, you know. Past lives. Everyone's got one, haven't they? I go visiting. Vagrants and criminals, in this city everyone knows a few... I come to watch you perform, sometimes. I still stand by my original answer though. Mostly, I'm a nurse."
The way she finished was slightly tight-lipped, a signal that she wouldn't divulge anything further. Not tonight. Not unless she knew he would understand, which she couldn't yet.

Angelo was one who could read such signals, plenty of times even when people weren't consciously showing them. He didn't miss Lenore's, and while he was a touch disappointed, he was intrigued too. It wasn't as if he'd shared all of his secrets, though the ones he'd kept were distasteful little vices. So was Lenore doing similarly? "I'm gonna have to keep an eye out now," he mused, "'Round here an' on the streets too. Sometimes I'm down by 6th too, right? So jus' maybe I'll see you, yeah?" He hoped so; Angelo met plenty of people in his daily life, but it was always noteworthy when he spent this much time with one of them. It usually inspired a story, a painting, him. Somehow, Angelo didn't think this would be greatly different. "I'd tell you to cruise on by the Kitten, 'cept I don' even really like workin' up there, don't think we'd get much time to chat it up like this."

She was glad that he seemed to have let the subject drop. She could picture him down at 6th Street, too. She hadn't been there for a while, but her bank account (well. The stack of dirty money under her mattress) needed to be thinned and the kids down that way probably needed to be fattened. Lenore shook her head at the suggestion of the Kitten, though. It was much classier than the Cherry had been, by about a million degrees, and not all her memories of that place were bad - but they were just that. Memories. It did no good to resurface them.

"The Kitten isn't my kind of place. Well, neither is this really, but people mostly just let me blend into the background here. I meant it about wanting to come and see your paintings though. If you wouldn't be adverse to it, of course," She meant this in all seriousness, some people didn't like others in their space, and if that was the case, who would she be to judge? She wasn't fishing for approval, "Chatting is very much needed, I agree. I think there are still so many things I want to find out about you."

One of the (only) up sides of an addiction to opium was the curbing of impulses that got plenty of people into actual trouble in moments like these. So, while most men might've thought the lovely young woman they were talking to was angling for a date, Angelo only saw someone reflecting back his zealous curiosity. "I jus' might need to make up some more a'myself then," he joked, "Don' wanna run out too soon. And..." Angelo trailed off with a thoughtful look aimed at Lenore as he silently considered her request. He wasn't ashamed of his meager living space by any means, but Angelo couldn't remember the last time he'd had someone over either. Still, he wasn't about to pass off the wonder for the sake of some idea of sanctuary. "When you wanna come on by? I kinda juggle here an' the Kitten, you know? So early an' late, them's the options, but either one includes a meal down at Nighthawke's."

Lenore was pretty oblivious to the whole 'dating' angle herself. If she wanted someone in that way she usually let them know straight off the bat, she couldn't abide playing the whole 'hard to get' game. You only had so long.
"Late if it's tomorrow, early if it's not," she replied, considering her schedule. Tomorrow morning she had someone to deal with, and the day after that she worked a night schedule at the Hospital. It had been a while since she had had a meal with someone, spent much meaningful time with anyone, really, who wasn't about to croak. Those times were the most meaningful to Lenore, though, so she didn't mind. She had become used to her strange semi-loner lifestyle. She liked it. But the opportunity was too interesting to pass up. She wanted to see his paintings and witness his quirky, sweet mannerisms in a different setting.

"Well, let's say late," Angelo decided, turning in his seat long enough to catch his drummer in a quick handshake as the other man left the bar finally, "I got my set to work, but that's cool. We don' never get blue skies in the daytime, so maybe we'll at least get some deep black an' stars, yeah?" Not that they'd see a whole lot of it in his apartment or the diner, but he'd at least get to savor it on his walk home from work. "You... jus' want the address? Or should I meet you somewhere?" he asked, clearly stumbling a little over basic social etiquette like this. Angelo was personable, but he was wading into new territory and savoring his own fleeting awkwardness. This would be the benchmark for him from here on out, he decided.

Lenore caught the slight awkwardness, and grinned briefly. She didn't like the idea of him being uncomfortable, but as someone who rarely felt the tugs of awkwardness it was fun for her to observe.
"Give me the address, I never get lost. And I don't know you well enough if I can say the same for you, so just give me a time and I'll be there." Lenore didn't do being late either, she was the queen of punctuality, so she figured she'd let him off the hook for her strict standards of timekeeping for their first meeting - as interesting as he was he didn't seem the type to make appointments early. Her remark may have come out a little more clipped around the edges than it was meant, but such was the way of Lenore.
"And stars, yes, I would not object to stars under any circumstances. If we're lucky, maybe the city'll let us have a clear night."

There was no offense registering from the way Lenore had spoken, and after a moment? Angelo laughed wryly, eyes crinkling at the corners in delight. "I've gotten turned 'round a few times," he confessed, "Got caught up in my own thoughts, they's tricky." He reached across the bar boldly, plucking a pencil from the barkeep's hand and grabbing a paper napkin before he started jotting out his address. "Calm down now," Angelo said to the tender, "Bookies don' open back up 'til dawn, you got time." Grinning Lenore's way, he offered her the napkin as he returned the pencil. "I don' know if either of us is that lucky, but we jus' gotta see. City's due to hand out a good turn one a'these nights, right?"

Glancing back over his shoulder, Angelo gradually clued into the fact that the Round was emptying, that his drummer had snuck his trumpet case by his seat, and that the barkeep seemed to be waiting on him and Lenore as well as the handful of other stragglers. "So, can a fella see you to a taxi?" Angelo offered, "This ain't exactly the safest strip of pavement at this hour."

Lenore folded the napkin sharp and neat, and tucked it into the smallest pocket of her handbag which was resting on the bar next to her. She realised that it was ridiculously late, as the bar was beginning to empty, and that a taxi would be very much required due to the fact that it was raining more than the fact the streets were dangerous. Lenore wasn't denying that they were unsafe, she just figured that if something bad were to happen to her? It was meant to. Getting soggy though, was not such a thing.

She grinned at Angelo, her nose wrinkling, and for the first time in the evening her black eyes shone with the full warmth of the smile. As pointless as chivalry was, the beauty of it was not lost on Lenore.
"Taxi's a good plan. I wasn't planning on staying anywhere close to this late, but I suppose I got caught up. It happens to the best of us. Let me fish my coat up from over where I left it," she nodded her head over to her old table, which was still empty, and miraculously, still had her silk-lined coat folded neatly on top of it. By rights she should be robbed blind every time she came here, but Lenore figured herself lucky on that front. Maybe it was just that her face was more familiar than she cared to admit, "and we'll see about getting out of here and breathing some slightly cleaner air, hmm?"

Crouching down for his trumpet case, Angelo slipped his ratty old umbrella free from beneath the handle and stood tall with a nod. "I'm always hopin' the rain might wash us a lil' cleaner, never seems to pan out," he mused, moving ahead of Lenore to reach the door first, "Sides, if it did? Jus' might not have anywhere to play." Angelo chuckled as he backed into the door, bracing it with a shoulder for Lenore to pass through as he snapped his umbrella open and held it at the ready for her. It was far from perfect; tattered at the edges and with a hole in one spot, but it was still plenty functional. Turning it to keep her clear of the hole, Angelo grinned back inside as he waited.

Lenore wrapped her coat around her shoulders and braced herself against the rush of cold night air, wrinkling her nose in distaste at how cold it was. She slid quite comfortably alongside Angelo underneath his umbrella, however, and looked up at him with an almost motherly expression.
"You'll catch your death, you know, with an umbrella so full of holes," she grinned slightly mischievously as she said this, almost to herself more than to him, "Although I very much appreciate the gesture."

"So full?" Angelo echoed, balking down at Lenore for a moment, "I only count one, 'less I'm goin' blind. This here umbrella's kept me dry through the worst storms our good city's got to offer, I'll have you know." The closeness of their shared canopy was a little strange, but it never seemed to verge on a bad or uncomfortable sort of feeling for Angelo. Really, he was quite comfortable around Lenore, secure in their seemingly kindred spirits and perspectives. He grinned as they walked, at ease in the proximity as he tilted the umbrella slightly to let excess water spill away. "An' a broke one's still better than none, right? What sort a fella might I be to hoard it all to myself?"

"Alright, one hole, I apologise. Still, it looks as though more might move in fairly soon."
She liked the closeness of their arms as they walked - his stride longer than hers, but her steps quicker than his, so it compensated. It was a good way to end an evening of unexpected similarities. A walk in the rain had a certain classical quality that Lenore could not deny. It seemed right.
"Eventually there'll be a storm that gets a little too much for it, you'll see. Nothing lasts forever. But at least you can tell it's an umbrella that's been loved. And shared with friends."

She smiled again. That felt good, too, calling him a friend. Lenore couldn't think of the last person she had counted as a friend - with nothing expected of her, anyway. With most people she knew? She was providing a service. A service she loved, but a service nonetheless. This was better. Simple, somehow. A nice connection to have made on a stormy night.