Scene-Setting Music: "A Cup of Coffee" (DJ Okawari)
"I say you don't need a thing from foreign countries!
Here's your coffee, Bert!
Coffee?! Ha ha ha ha..."
Every Thursday afternoon, Marcel St. Croix had a ritual that had been taking place for three years running. From 3:30 to 5 PM, he would just sit in his apartment suite, bathing in the sunlight as one of his favorite songs filled the air. In a world increasingly interconnected, where privacy was fast becoming a luxury even billionaires couldn't afford, sometimes you just needed to get away. And while he was fairly well-off, he wasn't could have a vacation on the drop of a dime well-off, so this was his method. His cell phone was switched off, his desktop computer closed; even his flat-screen TV was switched off so as to not intrude upon this refreshing of body and spirit. It was just the writer, his thoughts, his pad (in case inspiration hit) and his stereo playing smooth tunes. Odd and eccentric? Perhaps. But in a society where eccentric was often a euphemism for deranged or asshole, it was an essentially harmless practice.
Pale green eyes glanced at the door, a dark-skinned hand waving away at the intruder (as if it could actually seen) in mental dismissal, returning to drinking his spiritual cup of coffee. Whatever it was can wait. Or so he would have thought were it not for the very familiar aristocratic voice, bone-deep exhaustion creeping through her well-kept tones.
This had to be important, given it was A) Brittney breaking through his Thursday ritual (not even she was exempt), and B) the lack of confidence in her voice. Unable to ignore, Marcel strode over to the door, unlocking it to see the slightly shorter woman waiting for him, playing with her braid. The lingering droplet from her right eye caught his attention, as did the near look of...defeat? Stepping aside to allow her to enter his apartment, his private time could wait.
"Jesus. Had a rough day?"
There were few things that could soften Marcel's heart faster than a crying woman. Though Brittany appeared largely stoic, every bit the regal "ice queen" with the stiff upper lip, those two droplets were the equivalent of anyone else collapsing on the floor in a bitterly-sobbing heap. That she even allowed him to see that much...it was touching.
"Sit down on the couch." While the words were a request, his tone indicated he wouldn't take a no lightly. Fortunately he'd gone grocery shopping yesterday, so he could pour her a glass of ice-cold ginger ale. Pouring two glasses for them both, Marcel sat down the couch next to her, giving the blonde a compassionate smile. "I normally don't bring out the good stuff, but you need it. Tell me what's wrong."