An eyebrow raises at the word ‘chuffed’. She thinks on that for a moment, trying to remember if that’s even a real word. Oh well, she’ll figure it out later, and he didn’t even seem to mind his own mistake, so she shrugs it off as well. As they begin walking along the sidewalk, she holds her arm out to him, an offer to link arms as they went along.
“Of course I want to go with you. We barely get to see each other, and when we do, you’re usually working on my tats.” She gives him a small smile.
You knew what chuffed meant, which is why you used it. Meant that you were happy, proud of yourself. Whatever, whats done is done. Theres a little dance in your step as you walk, a bass laden rhythm bouncing off the inside of your skull and wouldn’t leave for anything. You look at her and beam.
"Well, is job. You come for ink, I give ink. Though, not my fault you cannot talk anytime after that. You are always busy. Sounds like.. личный problem." You shrug. Whether you would see more of her is up in the air, but you really can’t say you wouldn’t mind if you didn’t.
Marquise awaits Greg eagerly, lounging in the lobby’s sitting area. Even though she’d fretted a bit over Greg’s outward appearance, she didn’t look too great herself. She’s dressed only in sweats, a pair of Sanooks, and a tank top, low cut - like all of her shirts - to show off her chest tattoo. It was also one of those rare days she didn’t feel like bothering with her contacts, so a pair of “hipster” glasses adorns her face.
She perks up as she hears a familiar voice, a smile creeping across her face. Marquise stands quickly and bounces over to him, as pleased to see him as he must be to see her.
“Hey back atcha! Ready to go?”
Yeah okay. Your eye twitches at the fact that she looks just as bad, if not worse than you and she was the one criticizing how you looked. Whatever. Breathe in man, now was really not the time to work yourself up over something stupid. Not when there was some food on the horizon.
You give her a nod and think over your words before speaking, as usual slurring out your English in that accent. "Mhm, am, how you say, chuffed!" Wait no that wasn’t right. Your eyebrows furrow but you just shrug it over and lead her out of the lobby and out onto the sidewalk. The place, thankfully, wasn’t that far so you wouldn’t have to deal with much.
"Many thank for coming with me. Am grateful you wanted to."
After finding a pair of violently bright sneakers that hopefully wouldn’t offend Marquise’s delicate sensibilities, you mosey down to the lobby with all the excitement of a child. You two haven’t really gone out together much but you were good enough friends and she was an alright enough person and you didn’t really feel like punching her in her face half the time, so that was a good enough reason to hang with her.
You finally scuffle into the lobby, after fighting with your phone. You knew she said no crocs, which you obliged, but that didn’t mean you still looked borderline homeless with your sweats and your patched together jacket. When you see her you just beam and walk up, not wanting to seem too overbearing.
Mm, is..is hard explain. I have met few Russians, though most prefer mother country.
Which can say same about Americans.
Sounds pleasant? Never went to Italy. France I have, though. Am going to assume is similar.
I really can’t say much about Russia since I don’t know what it’s like, other than that it’s piss-ass cold. And good vodka. The generalities of it.
It’s a yes and a no — environmental-wise yes, they’re the same; but the people aren’t.
Well, is your take on. I see thing…В ином свете, than you. Could tell you about one day if you care for. Oh. Wasn’t for people when I was in Albi. Kept to self. What little I met was very.. mm… mild mannered. So, do not have very good representation.