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Post by ISA KRISTOFF on Mar 7, 2015 3:15:20 GMT
it was a slow afternoon, the kind isa preferred. a few customers trickled in, while he kept well away from the drafty door, and from the customers, unless he absolutely had to check them out or answer a question. he was shelving records, which was almost soothing in its mindlessness, when the door chimed. nearly seven minutes, and they were still here. isa still hadn't spared them a glance, but could feel the presence like a blip on a radar, like an itch, and it made him inexplicably irritable, slicing open the top of another box. finally, he sighed. "can i help you?" isa asked in french, still paying more attention to skimming the records than anything. his tone wasn't quite angry, but he greeted her as if she were an intrusive guest. MAGALI ZOHAR |
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Post by MAGALI ZOHAR on Mar 8, 2015 4:51:06 GMT
she hadn't really minded the silence—but when the store clerk belatedly spoke, magali glanced up curiously in her survey of a stack of records, fingers pausing on a laminated cover. it wasn't what he said that caught her notice, but how he said it, pronunciation smooth. too smooth to be the usual canadian french inflection, and so she made the leap that he was a foreigner. dreadlocks, dark skin were all magali could identify when the clerk couldn't be bothered to look at her, apparently immersed in his work. plucking a vinyl from the stack, she held up the little-known title for the other to read. "you could," magali answered back blandly in french. "do you know this artist?" |
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Post by ISA KRISTOFF on Mar 10, 2015 0:00:29 GMT
"do you think i've listened to every record in this store?" isa retorted, though his tone is even as ever. there's nobody else around, no reason to be saccharine (as much as isa can be).
still kneeling, he looked at her over his shoulder. something about her struck him as familiar.
finally, his eyes flickered to the record she's holding up. "john spencer blues explosion." he names the band without a second thought. no, he hasn't listened to every record in the store, but he's listened to a good deal. "i like meat and bone better."he stood up to tower over her, tossed the exacto knife onto the box. he's still trying to decide if she's familiar as a person or an idea - her european french, her face like a doll, the proper lines of her figure. MAGALI ZOHAR |
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Post by MAGALI ZOHAR on Mar 12, 2015 1:21:07 GMT
"i haven't heard that one yet," she replied distractedly, only half-focused on forming an opinion on the band the man named. idly, magali set the vinyl back down on top of the stack, the freed fingers of one hand drifting to her neck, to rest at the depression under the jaw. "do i know you?" she asked suddenly, the tilt of her lips thoughtful. |
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Post by ISA KRISTOFF on Mar 12, 2015 4:17:57 GMT
she barely seems interested in the records now, and isa starts to wonder if she's vapid, if she's here for the sake of appearances, if she's here to pretend to be interested in music and be genuinely interested in him. "you might."he doesn't answer the question, but he considers it. isa seems to ignore it, pulling out the aforementioned record and holding it out while he considers her. "zohar." he says suddenly, with certainty and not much else. isa isn't sure if he should be glad to see her. he hasn't thought of her in years. MAGALI ZOHAR |
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Mar 13, 2015 23:42:18 GMT
Post by MAGALI ZOHAR on Mar 13, 2015 23:42:18 GMT
she takes the record, reads its red lettering. at the sound of her surname said with a crisp certainty, pronounced exactly how it should, magali looks at the man with renewed curiosity. the name returns to her in a rush of nostalgia that tugs the corners of her lips up. it's bizarre to match an old name to a new face, like digging up a piece of prehistory or dusting off one of memory's wooden shelves to discover a book she'd forgotten ever existed. but now that she knows his identity, she easily recognizes the traces of a younger self in the lines of his face, features only partially painted over. "isa kristoff," magali replies. "what, have we reverted to a last name basis?" it's asked almost warmly, without resentment. |
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Post by ISA KRISTOFF on Mar 14, 2015 4:43:33 GMT
isa shrugs. he's not unhappy to see her, but he's not smiling - he never seems to be. they ended on poor terms, but that was neither of their fault, they were children. he is not angry, and that is more of a kindness than most people earn from isa. it is admittedly nice to hear proper french. "things are different." he says dismissively - isa has changed, but if the conversation turns to how they've ended up here, then it seems he hasn't. he steps closer, reaches out curious and unrestrained for her eyepatch, if she's got herself gored. MAGALI ZOHAR |
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Post by MAGALI ZOHAR on Mar 15, 2015 3:08:25 GMT
"different," she agrees, and taps the fabric shrouding her left eye with one manicured finger before isa's own can reach it. "i haven't lost an eye though, if you're wondering." the ghost of a smile plays peek-a-boo around her lips. magali pinches the eyepatch's edge and slides it up to reveal the hidden eye, winking, repositions it again. she doesn't offer an explanation; if isa wants one, he'll have to ask. "so, how'd you end up here?" magali has never been one to beat around the bush. |
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Post by ISA KRISTOFF on Mar 19, 2015 2:19:37 GMT
isa scoffs and drops his hand, impartial. he wishes she had a more interesting story to tell. she's grown up, but she still seems like a little shit - he thinks this a little fondly. magali is a piece of a place out of his reach - it isn't paris he aches for, but anywhere else. barely noticeably, the fingers of his left hand drum at his side. "same as anywhere." he replies, and he almost doesn't elaborate. "got in some shit." it isn't much of an elaboration. MAGALI ZOHAR |
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Post by MAGALI ZOHAR on Mar 20, 2015 1:38:06 GMT
"right," she laughs, the sound clear and blithe. "comme d'hab." magali can only imagine what isa waves a vague hand at, but she has a fairly confident idea nonetheless. it's no laughing matter—but she laughs anyways, because now she pictures the zohars sitting around the breakfast table, a vivid remembrance, and to the clink of glasses and knives on ceramic plates, she hears her father's voice, its stern disapproval: that kristoff boy was no good. écoute, magali, those types never change. "my parents still mention you sometimes, you know," she tells it like a joke, pauses before the punchline. "they never have anything good to say. i'm convinced you're not even a person to them anymore, just an idea." a cautionary tale, a story with a moral. |
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