2011 06 30: Simmering Sarcasm

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Mission Name: Simmering Sarcasm
Date of Mission: June 30, 2011
Locale: Starbucks - Greenwich Village - Manhattan

Geoff and Olivia trade some verbal barbs in a place where the coffee and the sarcasm are dispensed molten-lava hot.

geoff olivia

It may be almost 2 PM, but Geoff looks like he just got out of bed, slouching into the coffee shop in his wifebeater and torn-up jeans, scratching his chest. He gets in line for coffee, and mercifully it is a short line. He orders regular old coffee and slides down to wait for it.

Some folks might just be getting out of bed, but other folks have already been awake and at work for the better part of the day. Olivia is one of those people, and this is her lunch break, such as it is. Strategically timed in order to ensure the greatest possibility of one of the larger tables being open, she's purposely delayed her mid-day break, but you wouldn't know it by the sheer volume of paper that overflows the table. None of it's classified, and in fact almost all of it looks like mundane expense and travel reports, but it's kept far away from the cups: one half-full and one half-empty.

Only the true neutral can simultaneously perceive one cup as being half-full and the other as half-empty. Geoff grabs his coffee as it's given to him, and has a swallow, grimacing at the scalding liquid.

That's a fairly familiar sound around this coffee shop, which tends to fork over coffee capable of incinerating flesh. One might think that, with all the time it takes to even get a medium black coffee, the stuff would be ice cold by the time you got it. It appears though that these baristas get a sick pleasure out of it, knowing that beind the disclaimer on the cup they're safe. Even so, Olivia still turns to look at this most recent scalding victim.

Geoff makes a bit of a face at Olivia, partly apology for his failure to know how to drink coffee, partly silent complaint at the habits of the dispensers of lava behind the coffee bar. "How's it going," is the verbal remark he finally settles on.

"Fine, thank you," is her rather curt reply. Not exactly unfriendly, but not familiar either. In contrast to his rather ragged appearance, Olivia is, of course, as put-together as one can be. She has on a white blouse with a high, wide belt, a knee-length pencil skirt, and a pair of plain black patent-leather pumps with surprisingly high heels. In an attempt to bring some late spring fun to the office, she's left her hair down, but pulled back with a clip that has some faux white flowers on it. Yes, that's her definition of fun.

"Uh…huh. Kay," Geoff answers, apparently concluding that Olivia is not particularly interested in having a conversation with him. He nosily peers toward the papers on her table, but doesn't seem about to interrupt her work.

Olivia continues to go about her work, making notes on various forms with pens of at least three different colors. Shockingly, the pens are all from a matched set, and have the same grips, same tips, and same everything but the ink color. She probably has a spare of each in her purse, as well. Being watched, however, is enough to cause her to shut the folders - some of the paperwork, and at least one of the folders have the CIA emblem on them - and to look at Geoff. "Is there something I can help you with?"

"No," Geoff says, sipping his coffee now that it's cooled a little. Still, he seems not to be aware that his loitering is bothering Olivia, and makes no move to cut it out.

For a moment, she just sits there, putting the caps back on the pens, laying them out in three parallel rows on the table, tucking the papers neatly into the folders, and making sure all the corners are square and lined up, before she laces her fingers together on the folders. "Well, ah, is there a particular reason you're hovering and nosing in my work files?" she says, just as delightfully as she can, mustering as much of a smile as she can without it looking forced.

Geoff's brow puckers slightly at that question. "Damn," he says, "I was just bored. You don't have to be a bitch about it." That said, he heads to the counter at the other end of the shop, muttering, "Fucking New Yorkers," on his way. He sits down and watches through the window as people pass by outside.

The experience isn't exactly unusual for New York, that much is true. It is offputting enough that Olivia stands up and quickly disposes of her coffee cups. Gathering up her files, writing utensils, purse and everything else she had laid on the table, she starts towards the door…which is of course right near where Geoff has moved off. "I'm not a New Yorker, and for the record, I kind of have to be a bitch about it," she adds, showing off the ID badge around her neck that has her photo and the CIA emblem there, too. All the personal details are obscured by her thumb, however.

Geoff looks over at Olivia, eying the badge she's showing him, then looking up at her face. "Oh," he says, "'Scuse me," he says. "I didn't know they sent y'all out to coffee shops to be bitches to the general population. Thanks for apologizing, though," he adds sarcastically, lifting a hand in a lazy wave.

"No, occasionally they give us enough leash to come out here and do it all on our own." Having said her piece, Olivia clings the folders to her side, lays the badge back down, hikes her purse up on her shoulder, and pushes open the door. "So nice to meet you," she adds, firing back with the sarcasm before clopping out onto the sidewalk and going down the sidewalk away from the store's window.

Geoff just shrugs at Olivia, shaking his head a little. "You'll get the hang of making friends one day, honey!" he shouts faux-encouragingly after her.

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