[Roger McCready]

Everywhere he looked, Roger was blinded. By sequins and diamonds catching the light, by the glimmer of gold earrings, bracelets, and necklaces, and by perfect, bleached teeth bared in toothy smiles. Amid a crowd of neatly primped men and women, with their immaculate dress, fancy updos and shiny, polished shoes, the rancher stuck out like... a dirty farmhand in a room of socialites. He wasn't even wearing his best jeans, though these ones were thankfully clean, at least. He'd tried tucking his shirt in, but clung to no delusion that the futile attempt did much in "classing" him up.

He hadn't known what to expect when he'd accepted the tickets to the opera show, but Evelyn had assured him it was an exciting and worthy opportunity when he'd offered them to her a week earlier. She had failed to mention that the event was formal-dress, however, and Roger was half-expecting that, at any moment, someone would approach him and ask him to leave.

To top off his discomfort, he'd been waltzing around the room for the past half-hour in search of his date; no doubt further spotlighting his misplaced presence with his glowering scan of the crowd and his aimless float through the sea of people. Eventually, he'd tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans and retreated to the back wall; too conscious of the dirt on his well-scuffed boots as he fidgeted and knocked them together.

With a quick, almost-scoffing sigh (heavier with resignation now, as he finally made a decision), Roger turned toward the wall, offered the swimming crowd of chatting socialites his back, and dug his phone from a pocket. Flipping it open, and running his calloused thumb over the familiar nicks and grooves in the cheap plastic, he began working through just how to start one desperate text or another. As he navigated to the messages and found Evelyn's name among the short list of contacts, he weighed the options flitting through his mind — thumbs readying themselves to tap aggressively over the keys, but not yet decided whether he wanted to find out what was keeping her, to ask her if she'd dressed to the nines like everyone else, or to try and call the whole thing off entirely. Had she gotten stuck in traffic? "Haha, me too, might as well not go, then!" Was she feeling a bit queasy? Broken a heel on the way in? Sucking on his teeth, Roger shook his head, dismissed all thought from mind, and began tapping at the raised keys — 'if ur having trouble finding me, i'm the ONLY one in jeans'.

He braced his thumb against the key and looked the message over before clicking the button; then chanced a glance over his shoulder as the doors to the next room opened and people began moving inside. Almost immediately a response buzzed back, and Roger sucked in a hissing breath through his teeth as he opened the message.

'Did you not get my voicemail? :0 I called you twice! I'm sorry, I can't make it! But I work with someone wh-'

"You've got to be fuc..." Roger began in a low grumble, but let the curse fall away with a slight curl to his lip as he snapped the phone shut before he could even finish the message. He'd text her back when he was eight blocks away from this place. Or maybe he would duck into the nearest coffeeshop or supermarket and try to pawn the tickets off on some pleasantly-surprised couple who had the afternoon to waste. "Kidding me." He finished as he twirled back around and glanced over the heads of the many people still swarming about — still socializing, still laughing, and more than a few still casting him thinly-veiled, weighing glances. He didn't care anymore though, all he was concerned about now was slipping away. "Exit, pursued by a bear," he mumbled sardonically, as his gaze settled on the door he'd come in. "Excuse me," he added louder, more clearly, as he lifted a hand to the shoulder of the person before him; attempting to ease past them on his first step toward freedom.

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OOC: I'm going to go ahead and post an open thread with the assumption that Roger will be accepted. If I need to delete, then I will. So here's my boy, quoting Shakespeare at an opera because he's an uncultured dumb dumb. He probably imagined this was going to be more like a school play than anything tbh. Anyway, if anyone is interested, there's plenty of options here. You can be the person who Evelyn set up to take her place (maybe she's trying to play matchmaker or smth huehue), a sympathetic opera-goer, or really whatever you want. Make Roger suffer through three hours of opera. Bail and get pizza in a cozy jazz bar. I'm game for whatever. >:3

[Misti Manning]

Misti fought the urge to yawn, manicured fingers absently tapping on her black clutch bag. She’d never been to an opera before, never desired to. But when one of her employers had thrust the ticket into her hands as they gushed ‘oh, Misti! You’ll adore it!’, it had seemed rude to refuse. They assumed she would like opera since she liked piano, and she couldn’t fault them for it; both were considered classical music, both officially originated in Italy, and piano was almost as old as opera… give or take a century. So, she’d taken it, not really intending on going. But then she’d wondered if they would be there, expecting to see her in attendance, and if that were the case, she had to go. To show she was grateful. To show she didn’t just accept (potentially expensive) gifts to be polite and then discard them like a spoilt kid.

She'd done her best to present herself appropriately. No jewellery (she couldn't stand that stuff) but her straight, dark hair was brushed neatly down her back and she wore a slinky, dark green dress. It was a strappy thing, a silky material that wasn’t really silk but was close enough to blend seamlessly with the other elegant socialites' dresses. She liked the colour, had felt pleasantly surprised by her reflection in her room's mirror, but in public her skin tingled in discomfort, overly aware how bare her shoulders felt. She should have worn her work clothes. At least then she’d be in trousers. At least then she’d have pockets.

She kept her head high, meeting the occasional glances that came her way without flinching. She even managed to speak to a few people. Mostly pleasantries with a few of her existing clients that happened to be there, nothing substantial. No sign of the employer who gave her the ticket.

She jolted at the warmth of someone’s hand on her shoulder, instinctively turning to see who it belonged to. An unfamiliar man stood there; light brown hair, piercings in one ear, a bit on the wiry side. They were eye to eye due to the modest heels on her shoes, and something about his expression made her briefly wonder if she was being kicked out by Security (not that she’d done anything wrong; it just seemed like the kind of thing that would happen to her), but…

Her eyes were drawn down to his legs, and she blinked rapidly.

“You’re wearing jeans,” was Misti’s astute observation. Security wouldn’t wear jeans, not for an event like this. She frowned, her gaze flicking back up to his and then around the room, in search of other casually dressed attendees. “No one told me we could do that.”

She realised he’d been trying to get past her, and she quietly apologised, stepping back and prepared to soon forget the interaction until she noticed which door he was heading for. “Are you leaving? It’s about to start.” Most of the guests had already moved into the next room, and she tipped her head towards it, pointing it out in case he had a poor sense of direction. But maybe he wasn't supposed to be there at all (it would explain the jeans) and the thought prompted a spark of curiosity within her. How did he get in if he wasn't meant to be there? Secret entrance? Bribery? And for what reason? 


Roger McCready

[Roger McCready]

Too late, Roger realized the shoulder he'd raised his hand to was bare. His calloused fingers smoothed across the woman's skin and her momentary surprise cut through him in a swift, cleaving bolt. She jolted and he blinked in mirrored alarm, stifling an unbidden lurch in his own demeanor. He slipped his hand from her, returning it to his side and letting it ball into a loose fist as she turned to apprehend his retreat. He'd been careful so far to keep detached from everyone's feelings — among the mass of people gathered, mostly buzzing with the excitement of dressing up and showing themselves off, it had been overwhelming when he first arrived. The slew of feelings threatened to seep back over him, inviting him to partake in their enjoyment, but he shrugged the emotions away. Before he could become aware of the undercurrents of jealousy, pointed judgment, and the self-satisfied smugness that radiated from the taut smiles and thrown heads of many of them.

The woman's gaze fell to his jeans, and at the spoken observation that followed, Roger inwardly groaned, looking away with a tight upturn to his lips. It was a miracle no one had said anything yet, but it was too much to hope that he would make it out of the opera house uncommented upon. He looked back at her, preparing to assure her that it was okay and that he was already leaving, but then he looked at her, really looked at her, and bit the growl back. She was dressed as gracefully as the others, if not a bit more simply, and the frown on her lips lacked the pointed distaste that he expected. She quietly apologized and stepped out of his way, and Roger nodded his thanks, leaning a bit toward her to whisper lowly, voice still managing to be coarse, despite his intentions. "I don't think we can, but no one told me either."

He offered her a thin, pained smile, then began to turn away, ready to finish his departure, mind already soothed by the idea of the nearest, coziest bar. If he was lucky it'd be karaoke night and he'd find entertainment there after all. An entertainment far more suited to his appearance and appetite. The woman's voice reached out to him again, stopping his step and causing his smile to falter. He turned back, his gaze steady upon her face before it followed the tip of her head to study the throng of people moving into the next room, still smiling and laughing freely among one another. His eyes returned to her, narrowing slightly as he wondered why she, like him, was alone. It didn't seem the type of event to attend solo. Perhaps she was a critic? 

Roger turned to face her squarely, eyes appraising. "Have you been to one of these before? Is it.... is it worth it?" His gaze became imploring as he dipped his head, brow lifting. He hoped she'd be honest with him. He didn't think she'd be here if opera wasn't something she enjoyed, but surely she could tell this wasn't his scene. That he was here by some mistake. "I'm a bit out of my element," he added, gesturing to himself and lifting a dirty boot, as if to accentuate what she could already clearly gather. "As you've noticed." Roger jabbed a thumb toward the exit. "I was just gonna pawn my ticket off on someone in line at the box office."

Misti Manning

[Misti Manning]

His strained smile alone was enough proof that he didn’t want to be there, even if he hadn’t outright told her of his plan to pawn his ticket onto someone else. He hadn’t snuck in after all, not a conman or a freeloader, and Misti was a bit amused at herself for jumping to such conclusions. Her imagination had started to go a bit overboard since The Pirate Incident; no one could have normal reasons for doing what they did anymore. Everything out of place had to be analysed and commented upon, so if something strange happened again she could at least feel self-righteous and think to herself – I knew something was up.

The timbre of his voice was a bit rough but not unpleasant, and when he pointed out how out of his element he was, she shrugged. “I doubt anyone cares. They have more important people to gossip about than some random guy in the waiting room.” Her tone wasn’t unkind, her words intended to be reassuring. In her own way, she was trying to say ‘hey, it’s alright, even if they noticed I’m sure they’ve already forgotten,’ but she forgot to add the appropriate soothe to her tone and somehow ended up insinuating he was no one special. She inwardly cringed. Blunders like that weren’t uncommon when she was out of customer service mode. Still, rather than get herself all flustered by explaining what she meant and apologising, she decided not to waste his time and to focus on answering his questions instead.

“I haven’t been before. One of my employers gave me a ticket – I guess they thought this would be my element – but they’re not here, and…” She glanced back at the hall’s open doors and bit her lower lip for a moment. “Three hours feels a little excessive, doesn’t it?” There was probably something more productive she could do with her evening. Even if it was simply getting some good rest, allowing her to get up bright and early the next day. If she suddenly became desperate to listen to some opera music, she could simply find some online and click it off again as soon as she was satisfied.

Guilt prickled the hairs on her neck. She knew she should have more respect for her fellow musicians; this event was probably a big deal for them, one that took hours and hours of practice to make perfect. Yet here she was, selfishly dismissing their efforts because she thought she could do something better with her time. But… it wouldn’t exactly be honouring them if she was forcing herself to sit through the show, her mind wandering to the chores and other activities she could be doing. Surely the best way to show respect would be to fill the seats with people who would fully appreciate their work.

Misti turned back to the man, her head tilting as her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I think you might have the right idea.” Mind made up, she glided past him to the exit where she paused at the door, raising an eyebrow at him over her shoulder. “Two tickets will be an easier sell than one.” She knew she was basically forcing herself into his company and would hate it if their roles were reversed, but she reckoned he’d tell her if he had a reason to be strongly opposed to the arrangement. Going together made sense to her; it was more likely they’d find a pair of people looking to do something spur of the moment than it was to find two separate individuals. Also, she was hoping she could stand back and smile while he made the sales pitch and did whatever convincing was needed. Approaching strangers was in her top ten least favourite things of all time.

However, her gaze dropped down at her dress, then cut across to his jeans and dusty boots. Although not as ostentatious as some of the other attendees, maybe her outfit would be more effective in selling the glamourous angle. “Did you go on a hike before this? Or did clean shoes all around the world do something to offend you?” Her tone was flat, and she remembered perhaps a second too late to quirk up the corner of her mouth to show she was teasing.

Misti turned again and made her way out of the building, not really checking to see if he'd followed. She'd be fine if he didn't. She'd be okay with it if she didn't sell her ticket either; there would be no monetary loss for her, only a guilty conscience until she eventually forget it even happened.

Out on the street, their roles were reversed; now she was the one that looked out of place. Certainly, there were other women on the street in dresses of similar material, heading to bars and nightclubs in heels much more teetering than hers, but her dress was a little too long for her to blend seamlessly. Even if it was warm outside, she wished she had brought a coat to hide under, and she eyed the passersby with some apprehension, knowing that at some point in the near future she'd have to talk to them. 



Roger McCready