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<blockquote data-quote="Watus" data-source="post: 2880820" data-attributes="member: 14589">Typical, Pete thinks ruefully, staring at the slice of tomato and bits of shredded lettuce scattered across in his lap.&nbsp; That's just typical.&nbsp; He leans over the passenger seat of the parked car and sullenly grabs the paper fast food bag, tossing the remains of his burger into it.&nbsp; He gingerly peels the tomato off his thigh and grimaces at the spectacle of the perfect circle of yellow mustard now gracing his pantleg.&nbsp; He wets the corner of a paper napkin with his tongue, and attempts to daub some of it up, succeeding primarily in smearing it around and permanently embedding it into the fabric.&nbsp; That's great, he sighs.&nbsp; There goes thirty bucks.He wavers for a moment, briefly considering a trip back to his apartment for a fresh pair of pants before it dawns on him that he is wearing the last clean pair.&nbsp; With a shrug, he resigns himself to his fate and climbs out of the car.&nbsp; Jogging across the late afternoon traffic, he tosses the paper bag into a trash can outside the theater and pushes open the doors to the lobby.&nbsp; He pauses to take in the grand old space and all of that plush red carpet.&nbsp; It smells different in here: like a combination of dust, old cabbage, and furniture polish.&nbsp; It reminds of him of his grandmother.&nbsp; A moment later and it finally registers that there are people in the room - presumably volunteers - reupholstering the couches.&quot;Uh,&quot; he says, taking a few steps into the room.&nbsp; &quot;Excuse me.&nbsp; I, uh... I don't mean to interrupt, but I need to talk to a... uh...&quot; he pauses and pulls a notebook of out a pocket inside his winbreaker.&nbsp; He flips a few pages.&nbsp; &quot;A, uh... Sara Landry.&quot;&nbsp; He looks up, flashing a nervous grin.&nbsp; &quot;I don't suppose she's around?&quot;</blockquote>

[QUOTE="Watus, post: 2880820, member: 14589"] [i]Typical[/i], Pete thinks ruefully, staring at the slice of tomato and bits of shredded lettuce scattered across in his lap. [i]That's just typical[/i]. He leans over the passenger seat of the parked car and sullenly grabs the paper fast food bag, tossing the remains of his burger into it. He gingerly peels the tomato off his thigh and grimaces at the spectacle of the perfect circle of yellow mustard now gracing his pantleg. He wets the corner of a paper napkin with his tongue, and attempts to daub some of it up, succeeding primarily in smearing it around and permanently embedding it into the fabric. [i]That's great[/i], he sighs. [i]There goes thirty bucks.[/i] He wavers for a moment, briefly considering a trip back to his apartment for a fresh pair of pants before it dawns on him that he is wearing the last clean pair. With a shrug, he resigns himself to his fate and climbs out of the car. Jogging across the late afternoon traffic, he tosses the paper bag into a trash can outside the theater and pushes open the doors to the lobby. He pauses to take in the grand old space and all of that plush red carpet. It smells different in here: like a combination of dust, old cabbage, and furniture polish. It reminds of him of his grandmother. A moment later and it finally registers that there are people in the room - presumably volunteers - reupholstering the couches. "Uh," he says, taking a few steps into the room. "Excuse me. I, uh... I don't mean to interrupt, but I need to talk to a... uh..." he pauses and pulls a notebook of out a pocket inside his winbreaker. He flips a few pages. "A, uh... Sara Landry." He looks up, flashing a nervous grin. "I don't suppose she's around?" [/QUOTE]

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