Wasabi

Enthralling

She hesitantly indulged in another gulp of her drink, face pinched as she clung lightly to the stranger's history. Her drink--a French Connection, as per the menu-- seemed far from it's romantic, sweet, namesake. The bitter spice of brandy tickled her throat, and the art student fidgeted, stalling her drink by sliding it around on the coaster. Twenty bucks is twenty bucks. Asami took another sip.

Perhaps the man wasn't as classy as she had assumed him to be. Yet, Asami maintained her chic composure, and even mustered a laugh at his commentary about convenience store restrooms. "Pretty expensive place to be drinking, don't you think?" she murmured, eyeballing the vaulted ceilings from under her bold eye makeup.

All her life, she'd been adept at reading the feelings of others around her. Her therapist claimed it was a trauma response, and Asami simply went with her word. The bartender: tired, irritated; the man to the other side of her: heartbroken. The disheveled man across from her, however...

She came up empty.

"I'm here for extra credit," she admitted, after bowing her head in acknowledgement of his comment, a silent thank you. Perhaps he had hit on her, but she was entirely used to it. Despite his haggard appearance, she doubted that he'd be capable of anything while stuck in a wheelchair. "I'm not really part of the show, but..." she trailed off, thinking at how she'd spent the last several hours trotting around in her dress. Running errands, finalizing seats. Asami'd even spent a good hour on her knees, holding back the hair of a stranger who had her face buried past the rim of a toilet, the poor girl wracked with anxiety. All for a passing grade, which is what she'd have to settle for in Branwell's cutthroat class.

"The teacher's kind of a hardass," she groaned, teeth grit at the thought of her professor's stubbornness. She twitched the drink coaster along in front of her. "People online tell you that all you gotta do is ask for a little grade bump and most of your teachers'll help you out but," she rolled her eyes, "not this guy. And I've been here since noon taking care of all the little details, hoping maybe he'd take notice but now he's probably off canoodling with Jean-Paul Gaultier and the paparazzi." Her watch angled towards her face, and Asami scrutinized it with narrowed eyes.

"Shit, it's nearly time," she quipped. "Would you like help getting to your seat, Mister, er...?" The young woman tilted her head, her expression softening into a saintly smile.

Enthralling

There was an elephant in the room. He took up lots of space, indeed, carting around in a wheelchair that clunky and awkward amongst the sensational, stylish footwear that tipped, tapped, and trod under the vaulted ceiling. He was the only person in the lounge, it seemed, to notice Asami's haggard sputtering.

"Hm," nodded the bartender in curt affirmation. His smile was polite, but Asami felt a permeating air of disgust waft from the older man's disposition. It was not a smile, but a mask, and Asami's lessons with her father had taught her well enough to read situations, to read people, before they had ever entered his atelier. Even if she sensed malice, even if she picked up on the most palpable urge to kill:

"You must give all people you meet the benefit of the doubt. Do not just treat them with respect," warned Papa.

Mother finished for him, as she always did. "See these people with a heart of kindness, and you will live long."

People. Asami grimaced, contorting her bolded lips at the thought of her parent's advice. They were being too forgiving in referring to their family's clientele as 'people'. It was fear, not respect or kindness they spoke so highly of, that she felt every time the bell over the door rang in that humble shop.

The Enthralling. With talons stretched so thin over society, yet dug so deep into it, Asami was smarter than to assume that none were there, tonight. Still pensive, she boldly watched the barman place the disabled man's drink on a coaster with arrogant reluctance. He turned on his heel to attend to a sour-looking couple down at the other end of the counter.

With the respect learned from her father, and the kindness inherited from her mother, Asami decided to not overlook the poker-faced stranger. In fact, she bolstered an uplifting smile that took the energy of the room with it. She'd been smiling all day, and the apples of her cheeks were sore, but the gesture remained radiant.

"Rusty nail, huh? They always come up with interesting names for these," she wiggled her glass, tacking on. "Are you here to support anyone in particular?" asked the lively 22-year-old with a twinkle. "Or maybe you're here for the art? The theme for the gala is 'Aposematism'. The seniors were very clever with the wordplay, this year, I think." She'd wanted to be memorable, and hoped her charm would help her stand out.

Enthralling

Bright and beautiful.

Like a meadow of flowers, Port Desedes was full of life. Even more so after the rain. At night, the black pavement came alive with the colors of overheard advertisements reflected onto the storm-slicked streets. Bright and beautiful, sort of like a meadow of flowers, but much more like the serpents that lay below that blooming fauna, fangs bared in silent wait. In nature, predators learned to be wary of anything that shined. Because outside of the city limits, 'beautiful' was synonymous with 'deadly'.

Does that really matter to humans, though?

Obviously not! answered the crowd of fashion reporters just beyond the velvet cordons, each of them itching for last-minute seats into the evening's venue, the esteemed Heritage Museum.

"Fashionably late is still late, isn't it?" mused Asami to no one in particular, brows knit with frustration as she scrutinized the ticking hands of her wristwatch. She let the heavy door of the dressing room come shut behind her, rounding a hallway. The chaos had calmed some after she spoke to a few of the jittery models who would be strutting along the catwalk any minute now. For the majority of the night, she had partaken in an assortment of rudimentary tasks for her seniors, who had taken charge of the fashion show while awaiting the arrival of their overseer, Professor Branwell.

The back halls were empty, save for a few lighting technicians hauling equipment and some other passers-by, mostly communications students attempting to conduct interviews with the backstage crew. There was a sigh of relief to be had for Asami--she had been helpful enough for the evening, and was speed-walking back to the lounge area where she hoped to have a drink before taking her seat. Tactfully, she managed to shirk any more requests that may have been laid upon her, disarming her aggressors with a well-timed smile and tired glance.

The bartender, handsome but far too old for her, pushed her finished drink across the counter. Taking a sip, her eyes pinch shut as bitterness floods her mouth. "Eugh," she hacked under her breath. It didn't taste as good as it sounded on the written menu. Go figure. Obliging another half-assed taste, Asami self-consciously glanced to the side to see if anyone had spied her suppressed, and admittedly childish, gag.