[center][b][@Shadowpenguin07][@deadpixel101][@BCTheEntity][/b][/center]
	Within the next 20 minutes, three people entered the pork-shop: a clearly-stressed woman with long, curly hair and unwelcoming, blue eyes, a more-modest woman of similar stature and short, black hair, and a well-dressed man with dark blond hair and a cynical gaze. Not one of them was the friend Albrecht was waiting on, and each was [i]far[/i] from it. The girl he sought was care-free, all garish and amiable, and childishly unassuming and yet adult altogether.

	One TV mounted haphazardly on the north wall of the room showed CNN whose anchors currently were discussing the 2016 election trail and the Pope. A sports station on the other TV was presenting information about the Nationals and the Mariners. The rest of the shop was silent that nothing else could be heard except for journalists, harping about the significance of the Pope's visit just four days ago and the Bernie Sanders surge, or for commentators, speculating the outcome of the baseball games that would play later that evening. Idly Albrecht checked his phone again and looked out the storefront as if his reflection in the window would suddenly be replaced by his friend's presence. "[i]14:50. September 29, 2015,[/i]" his phone read. He'd been sitting there for roughly 15 minutes already, his food already cleaned from his tray and his drink half empty. Yes, [i]she[/i] was especially tardy.

	Speak of the devil, and light refracted across the room, the bell over the front door ringing its response. Lo and behold, [i]she[/i] had arrived. The girl had tight skinny jeans and a black, Fall Out Boy tank top, and over it, she wore a loose, mint-green open cardigan with floral print. Her light brown hair fell below her shoulders, and her eyes were a medium blue. She had a long face, fair skin, and lips like pink roses in the fall, all of this coming from her Nordic ancestry. Albrecht called out to her in his high voice matter-of-factly. "Spät."

	"What?" Nordic ancestry that obviously didn't reach her.

	"I said, 'spät.' You know, German for 'late'?" Albrecht spoke as if she expected her to know, as if he was chiding her for a grave mistake.

	She joined the brown-haired boy with the glasses. "Bitch," she said, slapping him on the face playfully.

	"Whatever, [i]Clarissa.[/i]" Albrecht rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt and crossed his legs, and he scowled at her in mock spite. He slid her food towards her across the table, and Claire sipped her favorite drink like it was holy water. Drumming his fingers on the table to the beat of a song only he knew, the young Hart asked, "What did you want to talk about, again?" She'd told him before that she had something interesting for them to do or talk about (or something like that, but Albrecht hardly remembered at this point), and the question was burning on his mind.