"The fact that this type of building even exists is somewhat revolutionary," remarked Rochester with a wry laugh while standing alongside her acquaintance, "Back in my home, there was this event called the Bourgeois Revolution, because it signaled the shift of power away from the fancy aristocrats to the middle class, at least when it came to the economy." She then scoffed and shifted her foot while shaking her head. "Not that it matters though. The rich folk still have the important power, so in a way... It is almost like nothing happened. At least industry is starting to grow, though."
In the midst of Rochester's musing, Spot stared at the tentacles on Mary's head with a sense of awe before stretching his body towards them. His tiny, gastropod body. Gurgling while he did so, Spot was only stopped by the fact that the chasm between the women's shoulders was actually too wide for the measly creature to cross. He was just fine with that, as he went back to curling up with a gurgle on his owner's shoulder. Content, as always. That was the easiest way to describe how Spot always felt - as well as how Rochester felt around Mary... Just as long as that damn headache didn't kick her ass again.
"Careful, Spot," sniffed the middle-aged scientist before stepping forward to get a better look of the menu, then rubbing her fingers against her chin. "But that asides... Let's see..." All of the names, admittedly, looked foreign to Rochester, since she had never been in this type of shoppe before. Maybe back home would've worked, because the technology there was more advanced, but here... Here seemed more isolated, more rustic.
In fact, the establishment was completely empty except for a few staff members, and the two customers in question! (Well, three when one counted Spot. Spot should always be counted.) And though Rochester initially thought of the dreariness as somewhat unusual for an otherwise idyllic setting, the longer she regarded the shoppe, the more uneasiness she felt. Broken windows, splintered wood planks... Did this place serve as a bar at night?
She... Hoped not, at the very least.
Her cadence suddenly quickening, Rochester turned towards Mary before suggesting, "You know what... We should just get this done with. You told me that there are some pastries that can be sold here, right? Along with the coffee?" Biting back a grimace at her own words, the older woman gazed up at the gibberish that was much of the menu - her predicament only worsening by that same dull ache that has started to throb away at the side of her head. Shit... "If so... Would two mochas work? Just plain. I don't know shit about how this fucking terminology works, if you ask me."
"Though, of course..." sighed Rochester while wringing her hands together and staring up at the sign, "I... I think a fruit tart could suffice too, mm? Shit, I'm sorry-" Almost as if she were in pain, she stepped off to the side and rubbed her temples. "Two fruit tarts too," she grunted through clenched teeth, "Maybe. I just hope this goes away- I apologize again. It's not you; I promise. Must be stressed from all the work I have to do..."
follow-up time. Rochester is a simple fellow. fruit drinks make her go brr.
Rochester was pretty sure the drink in front of her looked more like cough medicine than an actual smoothie, but whatever. She was thirsty, and it did smell like real fruit - at the very least. Real fruits could be vibrant when squeezed too, right?
With a glance over at Spot squeaking on her shoulder, the middle-aged woman soon looked back at the cupid and sniffed, “Honestly, coffee shops in my area tend to be rather, uh, homey. Every shop has a unique name, probably because they are owned by different people. It’s the primary specialty my city has except for maybe, uh, fossils…” Her voice wavered slightly when the fossils were brought up, but she quickly moved on with a wave of her hand.
“I can definitely relate to it though,” she sighed with a raised brow, “I remember being a young girl and witnessing the Bourgeois Revolution firsthand. There was so much shit streaming in from the new regions that the governor had to shut down imports for a bit, just so we could watch the global market change from afar, then integrate the bits that we liked. Obviously, that isolationist policy sort of fucked up the economy, but…” Rochester gestured vaguely with her hand, as if she wanted to notify the other that her next few words would probably be a serious derailing of the conversation.
“... You know, he’s dead. And I heard from my childhood associates that the economy is still reeling a bit. Can you imagine?”
She laughed wryly, albeit stiffly, before leaning forward slightly and nodding. Of course she was fine with this place being, well, homey. It fit within her new city’s appearance, and she had a soft spot for the rustic given that it was a welcome contrast against the futuristic, almost corporate shell that her hometown had taken on in the midst of the Revolution.
Oh, and at least this offered fruit juice. Rochester was a simple fellow.
With a raised brow at the drink offered to her, the middle-aged woman took a sip of the concoction while also nodding to his words. She wanted to quip that he was being a bit too pretentious for his good, and that he should be more careful with what he was saying, but alas alas. Her attention was shifted over to her sweet slug Spot when he was mentioned.
“I don’t normally feed him pastries,” corrected Rochester with a frown after putting the cup down, “They are too fatty for him. I doubt his body would be able to properly metabolize them, even if he is active.” Gee. At least give him feedback on the damn drink he gave you, asshole.
