He doesn't want to give her the pleasure of looking at his watch, so after he's examined all the off-the-shelf art prints in great detail, determined that her phone station is a newer model than his own, squinted enough to read--and memorise--the serial number of her computer on the back of her monitor, he estimates that approximately five hours have passed.
He finds his gaze shifting from the inertness of the bland decor to the most interesting thing in the room automatically; though there's no way he's going to make the mistake of staring at her tits again. She's not even looking at him, eyes fixed on the computer screen and mouth pulled into a half pout that appears both nonchalant and determined. She types steadily with the occasional violent slam of the enter key, as if she's using a bloody typewriter that requires physical force for a carriage return. The clicking of her manicured nails against the plastic becomes mildly soothing, and as if sensing his relaxation, she abruptly stops, reaches into a desk drawer, and without looking away from the screen withdraws a nail file and begins to rasp away at her middle finger.
The sound sets Owen's teeth on edge. He bears it for a few more minutes, then goes to stand again, joints creaking. "Look, if I could just--"
"Oh, not at all!" she speaks over him immediately. "You just sit tight, I'm sure he'll only be a few more moments." She forces him back into his seat with the sheer intimidation of her smile alone.
The sky gradually dims outside the antechamber's pitifully-sized window, and in the corridor outside the room the long-since extinguished sounds of people packing up and leaving are replaced by the sound of a vacuum. Ginger still doesn't even so much as look at him, though the shape of her mouth is more determined than smug now, and her keystrokes a little slower.
Owen's not sure when this became a battle of wills--all right, well he does know when it did, but that doesn't mean he's willing to give up--but it's time to up the ante. Time to let loose some of that bulletproof Harper charm.
He clears his throat, waiting for her to look over. She doesn't.
He clears his throat again. "So," he says. "You er... You been here long, then?"
She looks at him then, and he wonders if she has any stares in her portfolio that don't threaten physical violence.
"My name's Owen, Owen Harper," he says, rethinking the part in his plan where he strolled up to the desk and leaned over it suggestively. He crosses his legs nervously instead. "I--"
"Look mate," she says, animosity finally out in the open as she snaps out her response. "Do I honestly look like I care?"
no subject
He finds his gaze shifting from the inertness of the bland decor to the most interesting thing in the room automatically; though there's no way he's going to make the mistake of staring at her tits again. She's not even looking at him, eyes fixed on the computer screen and mouth pulled into a half pout that appears both nonchalant and determined. She types steadily with the occasional violent slam of the enter key, as if she's using a bloody typewriter that requires physical force for a carriage return. The clicking of her manicured nails against the plastic becomes mildly soothing, and as if sensing his relaxation, she abruptly stops, reaches into a desk drawer, and without looking away from the screen withdraws a nail file and begins to rasp away at her middle finger.
The sound sets Owen's teeth on edge. He bears it for a few more minutes, then goes to stand again, joints creaking. "Look, if I could just--"
"Oh, not at all!" she speaks over him immediately. "You just sit tight, I'm sure he'll only be a few more moments." She forces him back into his seat with the sheer intimidation of her smile alone.
The sky gradually dims outside the antechamber's pitifully-sized window, and in the corridor outside the room the long-since extinguished sounds of people packing up and leaving are replaced by the sound of a vacuum. Ginger still doesn't even so much as look at him, though the shape of her mouth is more determined than smug now, and her keystrokes a little slower.
Owen's not sure when this became a battle of wills--all right, well he does know when it did, but that doesn't mean he's willing to give up--but it's time to up the ante. Time to let loose some of that bulletproof Harper charm.
He clears his throat, waiting for her to look over. She doesn't.
He clears his throat again. "So," he says. "You er... You been here long, then?"
She looks at him then, and he wonders if she has any stares in her portfolio that don't threaten physical violence.
"My name's Owen, Owen Harper," he says, rethinking the part in his plan where he strolled up to the desk and leaned over it suggestively. He crosses his legs nervously instead. "I--"
"Look mate," she says, animosity finally out in the open as she snaps out her response. "Do I honestly look like I care?"