3362/If you like Pina Coladas

If you like Pina Coladas
Date of Scene:	14 September 2020
Location:	Atlantic Ocean Coastline
Synopsis:	Arthur makes a few innocent comments and Namorita is all 'wtf?!'
Cast of Characters:	Arthur Curry, Nita Prentiss

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Arthur Curry has posed:
    Rainfall has always been a strange time for Arthur Curry. When a storm rages and roars off of the coast, when it pelts the shores and the beaches it triggers in him age old memories that bring up the gentle happiness of nostalgia, tinged with that hint of loss. But it's a sting of loss that just serves to remind him of his connection to his father.
    For it was during the storms when they would climb up their lighthouse and his father would start up the multiple generators needed in case there was a loss of power. The radios had to be tuned and checked for charge, and they had to respond to the requests for status updates every hour. Storms meant work...
    But there was nothing like seeing a raging nor'easter from atop the tower.
    It was on a day such as that, there in Manhattan so close to the East River. With the sheets of rain slashing down upon the beach and the pier as well as the docks. Few people are out, no tourists on the day because of the storms. Few locals because even they know to come in out of the rain.
    Except for that one crazy guy standing out there in the middle of it all, his wild hair unbound and slicked back, his beard a ragged braided twist that's been pushed back by the brush of wind. Standing bare foot and smiling like a madman to himself as the thunder and lightning lash across the clouds further out to sea. He's wearing just canvas pants and a loose tan hemp shirt that's soaked through and hugging every contour and curve of his athlete's body even as he rocks back and forth on his feet, his hands in his pockets...
    Until eventually even he retreats back to the line of stalls and food kiosks on that pier, kiosks that have to be manned by clerks even in such inclement weather. And one who lifts his voice, "You crazy there, mac?"
    To which, grinning indeed like a mad man, Arthur turns those amber eyes on the man at the hot dog stand and says, "Sometimes, man. Sometimes."

Nita Prentiss has posed:
    Storms like this, the menace of lightning, the lash of wind, the sting of rain on tender skin is a homecoming for Namorita. Her birthright is the deep ocean with all its secret beauty and the rage of the storm. She sits perched on a low pier support, blonde hair darkened to gold by the sluice of water washing down her face. Tight jeans mold to her slender curves, her silk shirt like the blue of the Atlantic on a sunny day leaving no detail of her breasts to the imagination.
    A bolt splits the sky so close there is no delay between sight and hearing. Ozone fills her nostrils. Laughing at the storm, she jumps down from her perch. She's hungry and a kiosk on the water might have what she needs.

Arthur Curry has posed:
    Looking past him, the hot dog stall vendor catches sight of Ms. Prentiss' approach, her rush through the shower of rainfall, jogging and closing the distance to that kiosk. And, to be fair, his eyes lower as he shakes his head in appreciation. But his murmured comment is nothing about her body and more about her mind.
    "Two loonies it's looking like."
    Which gets Arthur to look over his shoulder as his lips twist up into a wry grin. Then it's back to the vendor and he says, "Hey, no harm in enjoying the rain. Two brats and a soda." A nod is given to Namorita as she rolls on up.
    But the vendor replies, "Oh yeah, for you guys maybe," He says as he starts to get the bratwursts off the grill and starts adding the needed onions and peppers and sauce to go with it, but taking his time.
    "But me, storm clouds show up, my knee starts hurtin' cuz of the metal plate in it, and then the whole day I gotta limp around like a schlemiel. That'll be seven bucks."
    And Arthur pays the man.

Nita Prentiss has posed:
    Nita does not give a good goddamn that she is being stared at, the storm has put her in a good mood. In a bad mood, she would do her version of 'off with their heads.' That chip on her shoulder makes her swagger into the kiosk, dripping, the cold making her nipples stand at attention. She's not in a demure mood and straightens her shoulders.
    The pointed outline of her ears poke through her wet hair, forgetful of them, younger they embarrassed her, she pushes her hair behind them and stares up the menu. She glances at the two monster brats being served to the older man who gets another look. Good looking for an older guy,
    "Chili dog, yeah. Onions, too. Do you have any beer?""

Arthur Curry has posed:
    There is a certain roughness to him, that wild hair slicked back, the beard braided partially and looking as if he takes care of it, and that half-smirk he shoots in her direction as he meets her eyes. Amber eyes of his, like the sun above should one dare to stare at it.
    She'll likely see the way that normally loose shirt hangs over the swell and dip of the taut muscles of his chest. Elaborate tribal tattoos depict several patterns, almost like the scales of an undersea creature or ages old armor. Yet the taut cords of muscle along his neck, the thick biceps that are barely constrained by the sleeves of that shirt, they were not forged but instead the work of a life of hard work and effort.
    And then he ruins it all by raising his voice. "Aren't you a little young for beer?"
    Since, to be fair, she has that elfin silhouette, thin and small of frame and chest. Athletic assuredly with her own developed form, but it wouldn't be the first time she was mistaken for a teenager.
    "No beer, kid. No license." Then under his breath the vendor says grimly, "Anymore, at least." But he moves to fill her order even as Arthur takes up his brats and leans against the wooden wall beside the dog vendor, smirking as he starts to eat.

Nita Prentiss has posed:
    The good mood persists: tattoo man with his muscles and scraggly hair is not going to take away the glow the lightning produced. She rocks up to her toes, turning in place without a waver to stare him in those odd colored eyes.
    "Aren't you a little old to be getting into my business?" Her finely modeled chin lifts, her eyes are a startling blue green, the color of the Aegean on a sunlit day. With a shrug, she rocks back down, one corner of her mouth pulled back into a smirk.
    Turning back to the man behind the counter, "Club soda and lemon? Ah...if not, a root beer."

Arthur Curry has posed:
    One thing Arthur's good at, it's taking guff since he's so good at giving it. So when she asks him if he's too old, he sort of smirks and looks away as he nods and answers with. "Probably. Probably." Smiling at the second one as his eyes distance toward the steady cascade of rainfall in front of him, coming down in sheets like a distant marching army ready to besiege the city.
    That said, however, he takes a bit of his brat and chews for a time, nodding to himself a little. Though, to be fair, he does find himself stealing a glance sidelong at the elvish looking gal. He does that slight tilt of his head to the side as if holding an inner monologue with himself and a decision had been made that, alright, she's not entirely terrible to look at.
    Then it's back to the rain even as he brushes his brow with a heavy forearm. Takes another bite even as the vendor fills her order and hands her her chili dogs and root beer. Since yeah. Club Soda. No.

Nita Prentiss has posed:
    Good, that slows him down from hitting on her. The hunger bites, even she is feeling the chill though she's the one that make other surfers do double takes. She's taken to wearing wet suits, thin ones, true but at least people leave her alone while they are out in their 4 to 6 mil suits.
    The food comes up and is paid for by a sodden twenty pulled from her pocket.The first bite earns a little groan of pleasure from her. A thumbs up is thrown to the counter man who has garnished her drink with a slice of lemon.
    Waving away the change, she takes her chili dog over to a counter that she leans sideways against allowing her to look out on the spectacle of the storm. The unrelenting rain has her attention between bites though once her eyes wander over to the big man. Big shoulders and lean hips are not bad on some men.

Arthur Curry has posed:
    "Chili dogs though." The tall man says in way of non-sequitur. Just announcing those words to the world as if they made perfect sense even as the steady patter of the rainfall lends a steady white noise to the world, made worse since the tin roof of the nearby midway gives a melodic addition to the weather.
    "When you could have perfectly good brats." He says that without looking at her, just taking a few bites, chewing. His head tilts to the side a little, that hemp shirt hanging open at the collar and lapel. Those tattoos must have taken a damn long time, Maori perhaps? Hawaiian maybe. She'd be familiar with that if she's into the surfer culture.
    "Seems like a mistake to me." He finally announces that judgment, nodding to himself. "Also," He finally turns to look at her and nods solemnly as if confiding in her, "Gives you bad breath." Of course he's the one eating sausage and green peppers and onions.
    Though, to be fair, those onions are cooked well.

Nita Prentiss has posed:
    Those big baby blues squeeze shut in disbelief at the effrontery of this guys critique. A lock of hair clings to the side of her face which she pushes back with a flick of misplaced violence. She chews her dog, shaking her head until the bad breath comment.
    "Who asked you? Is it your mission to give people heartburn so they never come back to this place, much less order brats. You're the brat!"

Most of the chili dog lines her stomach now, she burps politely, covering her mouth. "I'm surprised you'd be worried about it considering you couldn't smell anything over your own odor. You look like you only get wet in the rain."

Arthur Curry has posed:
    A short snort comes from him but he hides the smile with another bite of the brat, pointedly chewing and getting some of the onions in his beard as if showing her that indeed, he can be a total mess. So rude of him. But he does wipe a forearm over his chin and once he finishes chewing the smile is all the more prominent.
    "Just makin' polite conversation." He keeps looking across the East river, smiling to himself and it's clear she can't dampen his mood. Too much in a good place from the storm and the taste of the bratwurst.
    And after he says that it might seem like there's a detente there for a time as she makes that little burp. That's when he says, "You might wanna try it some time."
    Then she makes that comment about his odor and his eyebrows shoot up. "Oh so you're sniffin' me now. That's just plain weird." Such judgment!

Nita Prentiss has posed:
    "I didn't need to /sniff/ you. The wind shifted and I thought I was at Fulton's Fish Market and not at the pier." Pleased with herself, she returns to her dog, dispatching it with two more bites. One leg crossed in front of the other, hipshot, she looks out on the rain until a thought comes to her.
    "Wait. /I'm/ weird?"
     Uncrossing her leg, she stands up straight, then crosses the few steps that separate them to stand looking up at him. He is a mountain compared to her petite frame and svelte curves. Tapping his chest with a finger, she raps out, "Try what? Insulting people?" She grimaces, adding, "You have onions in your beard."

Arthur Curry has posed:
    And as she casually compares him to the smelliest aspects of the sea he can't help but chortle, amused for one reason or another even as she crosses the distance to him where he leans back against the wall, though when she draws near he straightens to his full considerable height. He must be what, six foot three... four? And he's almost a full head taller than her. Yet here she comes to insult him.
    And here's the poking, tap-tap-tap on his... really rather broad chest. And those pecs firm at that tapping. And really he doesn't smell that bad, sort of earthy, yet masculine, the tinge of steel and sweat to him.
    And the way she's standing, her chill with the water, the subtly firm lines beneath the fabric of her shirt pressing forward and just barely... barely brushing his own, might send a tingle through them.
    "Having polite conversation." Though his voice is lower then, a little rumble of a murmur, quiet enough that the vendor doesn't hear and... wow he is so very warm for some reason against where she touches him in those three small spots.
    "Though you're close enough now." Still that low murmur, teasing perhaps but with a subtle undercurrent of a bedroom whisper as he then murmurs, "So tell me, how do I smell?"

Nita Prentiss has posed:
    The bane of her existence and pleasure is how acute her smelling is. In another world and time she would be a renowned chef, a sommelier or a nose, creating expensive perfumes from rare and exotic ingredients. Life has chosen differently for her.
    She sniffs despite herself, smelling the rain in his hair, the odd bits of caramelized onion in his beard, the spice of the brat and the musk of his skin, forgetting to move back. The heat from his uncovered chest radiates through the silk of her own clinging shirt. Fine eyebrows crease into a frown when his words penetrate. She steps back, for once, at a loss for words. "Do you just go about insulting people all day?"

Arthur Curry has posed:
    A smirk is there as he meets her gaze and casually brushes a hand down the sides of his cheeks and over his beard, catching the errant particle if it even truly was there. There, not an onion, maybe a tiny bit of pepper. He looks at it, eats it. The barbarian.
    But then he looks up and he says, "Technically, I didn't insult you. Technically." The way he says that word 'technically' emphasizing the first syllable might be infuriating in its own way, but his smile is warm even as he adds.
    "I said that you seemed young for beer. And that chili dogs make a person's breath smell." He takes a sip of his soda, then holds the can in one hand smiling as he looks at the rainfall and the wind sending it in a cascade of curtains across the docks and the pier.
    "You chose to see that as an insult. So. There you go."
    Oh that bastard of a man.
    He then tightens that sopping wet hemp shirt around himself a little, but with it now closed a bit more she can likely see the small stiffness from where he's feeling the chill as well, goosebumps growing upon the back of his neck.
    "But no, sometimes I take a break from insulting people to go have a beer."

Nita Prentiss has posed:
    "TECH-nically?" She mimics, lowering her voice but not achieving the rumble of his bass voice. "You want off being called an insulting jerk on a TECH-nicality?"
    Nita takes a half-step forward, one hand curling inward as though she wants to make a fist to punch the braided beard man. She stops. He was the one being insulting, it's no skin off of her nose if he wants to wander around the pier, half undressed so people can admire his tattoos. So typical. Her eyes drop to the tattoos, well executed ones, no knock-offs those, but looking like he had been to the places whose cultures he appropriated. A closer look. She shrugs, admiring them despite herself, they look like they belong. Well, no matter, he's still a jerk. An interesting one, she'll give him that.
    "Time for you to take a break then."

Arthur Curry has posed:
    "Mmmhmm," The tall man says with a crooked smile. "Is this your way of asking me out for a drink? You know there are politer ways of doing that." He grins to himself and then steps forward and... just brushes past her. From afar someone seeing it might not think twice of it. But the way his strong body just casually brushes close, his leg drifting past hers, the touch of his chest to hers. Well there's a lovely feeling in passing.
    And then he's walking to the bin and tossing his trash away, tilting back to take a few swallows of his soda and then tosses that as well. Not in the blue recycling bin either. Madness!
    "Shoulda just led with that." His lip twists and then, despite it all, he extends a hand toward her and says, "Arthur. Arthur Curry." The first civilized thing he's done since they met.

Nita Prentiss has posed:
    Lucky for Nita she doesn't see the counter man watching Arthur's smooth moves with admiration. Caught between the desire to kidney punch the big whale who sails past her with the grace of a sea creature, making her aware of a chill that uncharacteristically pebbles her skin, and wanting to give him her name in reply, she stands open mouthed, gaping at him for an instant.
    Her mouth claps shut, automatic civilities raise her hand and let his large hand engulf hers. She returns the shake firmly, no matter that her hand disappears inside his.
    "Nita. Nita Prentiss. Is that your upside down way of asking me to have a beer with you?"

Arthur Curry has posed:
    "Sure," Arthur says and his handshake is not aggressive. It's firm, business-like, three short pumps and then released as he looks to the side, then back at her, perhaps giving a wink to the vendor when he seems to furrow his brow at something distant when Nita's attention might well not be entirely on him.
    But then he's looking back, "If that makes you feel better. It's me asking you." For a moment his lip twists as he considers saying something else but with how he's gauged the young woman's temper he might well think better to do so. So instead he murmurs. "Down the pier toward the docks, Smitty's Wharf. You know it?"
    He then looks up at the sky as another roil of thunder rolls on past them, the hint of lightning missed or perhaps somewhere too distant to see.
    "You don't mind walking in the rain, do you?"

Nita Prentiss has posed:
    A minute widening of her eyes hides a tirade. What is she thinking accepting an invitation from this mad stranger with the braids in his beard and fuck all attitude? But there is something exhilarating about it. It mixes with the thrill of the storm.
    "Oh, you care about how I feel now?" She waits for the next insult to come rolling out of that smirking mouth and when he follows up with a matter-of-fact description of a place close by, she has nothing to push against except for her own reasonable voice telling her to say good bye. Instead, she says, "I like walking in the rain but hate pina coladas."