So Grey|Open, INACTIV

[ricketts]

Often, when the weather was fine, Henry took himself out walking just before work, leading himself along the quays with his hands in his pockets. Each day that elapsed seemed to bring calm to his soul. Little by little, he had become to his life so indulgent and so affectionate. Taking every day pleasantly. While walking, he would think about things. Like his first few weeks in the city, he had been anxious, agitated, nervous; he had wandered through New York like a soul in trouble; he had had moments of inconceivable prostration, during which tears could be seen rolling down upon his cheeks. At the beginning, even the greatest optimists would hardly have thought that Henry could hold out longer than six weeks. And now the investment had lasted over a year now.

On the way to the hardware store he went as far as the quays, and then took a turn that cut into street that lead on into the Wall Street thoroughfare. For the first time in a long time, he breathed freely, and listened. He listened with the most intense attention. He had come to mingle so completely in his thoughts of his future life. A casual look would have classified Henry as a very average looking young man such as could be found on the sidewalk of any city; if young men can ever be classified as average. He glanced dispiritedly up at the perpetually cloudy sky and idly watched a rivulet of water race down the dirty pane of a store window, and caught his own reflection. Idle posture, hands in his pockets and hair picking up softly by the wind.

No fear. No indecisivness outside narrow specialties. Just a normal guy staring back at him. The guy smiled modestly before disappearing into the right of the glass window as Henry entered shop.

'Hey Henry'

'Afternoon, Hank.' Henry started removing his coat, shrugging it away and hanging it on a peg before turning around and seeing his boss who was busy at the other end of the counter. At this hour the place was deserted except for the wispy-haired little man who stood fussing with some papers. He looked up as Henry started to walk over.

'There's a Starbucks here waiting for ya, son.' Hank pulled a card from a file on the desk and studied it, nodding to the counter space beside him. There was a modest sized capped cup sitting there. 'Hope ya like Caffè Mocha.'

'Aye, it'll do.' He stepped around the corner of the counter and cupped the drink in his palm, nodding softly once. 'Cheers.'

As Henry bent his head to his drink, Hank gave him his apron and consulted the card again. A good drink did the trick. He had awoken ravenous and thirsty that morning, but lay quietly for a time, luxuriating in the feel of the clean soft sheets. Then foolishly left the house with little money, he could have gone for a bag of donuts on the way. Not something Hank approved, but then again, that was just Hank. The man had taken a shine to Henry when he had first wandered into his shop, and as he got to know him became like the father he never had. Family under the skin. Henry raised from his mocha, licked his top lip and bent his head again as he threw the loop of his apron over his head.

'Just headed into the back, sonny. Take care of in here for me will ya?' The gray-haired Hank who had been standing at the counter studying a paper, looked up and smiled politely. Henry hesitated for a moment, nursing his drink. As if seeking expression to convey what he might have said. Then, 'Yeah, Hank. O'course.'

There was in his voice so much comradely spirit, that the older man could hardly restrain a friendly nod of trust back. As he walked down the deserted room and through a door, his footsteps echoed hollowly like a dirge. After Hank had left, the room seemed suddenly bigger, and darker. Henry placed his elbow on the counter and cupped his chin in his palm. Then restlessly, he rubbed his hands together. They felt moist and clammy. He bit the fleshy part of his middle finger and then began to worry his ring with his teeth. God damn, he was hungry.

How long had he been out for this morning anyway? He didn't know, and found it impossible to reckon. Maybe he would have been able to tell from the shade of the sky, but thus far into the day, it had been so gray.

[lizzie]

So far her time in New York City had been most unimpressive, Lizzie thought to herself with a dark smile. American men seemed to think themselves far too charming to be simply cast aside by any woman who did not desire their company, and it was starting to get on her nerves. At least she had the chance to escape by going on certain errands for her aunt and uncle. It was a good way to get her mind off of things by wandering the crowded streets seeking out specific stores. Today she was looking for some sort of hardware store, as her uncle had broken yet another light bulb leaving them without any replacements. Not only that, but her Aunt Gardiner had asked her in confidence to also find some various nails and such, as she wanted to start hanging up pictures in their new home and she did not trust her husband to do so without great damage being done to his thumbs.


Mr. Gardiner was a good man in his own way, but he was terribly clumsy and accident prone, leaving his wife with the duty of either taking him to the hospital or patching him up herself. Often for the sake of saving money, the two women of the house preferred to play the part of nurses on their own. Now Mrs. Gardiner had begun to do more of the maintenance about the small apartment that she and her husband were renting. It was better for all those involved if such was the case, and there were far less injuries this way.

Finally locating the store that seemed her best bet, Lizzie pushed open the door and looked around for a moment. What was it about American stores and being so...difficult to understand? She thought to herself. Sighing and walking through the aisles, Lizzie did her best to not look hopelessly lost.

[ricketts]

New York City was a busy place at all times, and at this hour most people were busying themselves in the malls and markets. Not so many people came to the hardware store though, not when there was a mega-mall just down the street. Henry didn't mind though, it made for a sweet, quiet workplace with the occasional coming in for a can of paint or some hammers. He was not given to self-analysis, but while on the one hand he felt suddenly free, he knew on the other that he had sacrificed something which meant a great deal to him. Still he would not think about it. After all, all the time he had been kept away he felt like a man tied to the end of a rope, or chain. He would now have his liberty. He was glad to be free to enjoy his life, and drink his Starbucks.

Meanwhile dark clouds began to arise from under the gray in the nation's sky - Henry noticed just a few minutes later when he glanced out of the display window. Looked like rain. It didn't look to bother the shoppers, a few hundred more people seemed to have had come out into the street since he was out there. Not long he was in singling out a young woman who had crossed the display window and suspected she might enter shop, so he straightened up from his slouch over the counter and went to set his drink down. Posture was everything, Hank said, and protected by the respect that everyone bore a fatherly friend Henry took it on board.

With an outward, casual calm Henry turned the notch on the radio, it clicked on and fuzzed some static for a moment. Then the electrostatic died away into a song Henry quite liked, bring a light in his eyes and a color in his cheek, as well as a sweet, approving grin. The shop bell dingled as someone opened the door and Henry cut a brief glance. It was the same girl that had crossed, and as Henry did with most customers he paused to take a fleety look. Her face was refined, her eyes large and intelligent. But she seemed to be aimlessly wandering around. He let her go on for a few minutes, just in case, but when she didn't seem to be browsing around he leaned on his straightened arms, palms flat against the counter top.

'Can I help you?' The good soul asked, his Irish birthright clear in his voice. Henry was pleased to help, almost contented.

[lizzie]

Turning to face the speaker, Lizzie couldn't help but smile as she heard his accent. Irish, yes, but by God it was an accent from the United Kingdom! It had been so long since she had spoken to a fellow countryman outside of her aunt and uncle that she was far more pleased than she had any real right to be.

"A little help would be nice, actually," she admitted with a grin, allowing her own Hertfordshire accent to become more pronounced than she usually permitted in the company of Yanks. "I'm afraid I'm new to the neighborhood and hopelessly turned around. You wouldn't happen to have any nails and light bulbs on hand, would you?"

It was so pleasant to hear another non-American accent, Lizzie thought to herself. And he looked to be a rather decent fellow as well. There was a sort of quiet charm about his appearance, especially in his eyes and smile, and Lizzie could not help but compare him to the charming George Wikham whom she had met only shortly before leaving England. While Wikham had been much more openly attractive and charming--even bordering on the improper in his behavior towards girls--this man was far more subdued in his appearance. Not a bad comparison, of course, but not one that Lizzie would hold in his favor if he should prove to be a disappointment.

[ricketts]

To look at, Henry was sparely built, with speaking blue eyes in which shone the light of knowledge and self-humbleness, while at the same time they made one think of that wonderous gentleness seen most often in the eyes of animals. His face somehow conveyed an impression of transparency, almost of light, so delicately were the features refined away. He let his attention fully slip to the girl; while, from his manner,- gentle, quiet, sympathetic, few could have guessed the strength of malignity that burned within him like a roaring flame.

'Alright,' He said when she was done, her sweet voice having a characteristic. With something in the dance of his vivid blue eyes that hinted at radiant and sad memories, he smiled his pleasant smile and picked up one of the papers Hank had been shuffling through, the list of stock and which aisle they were in. 'Well, the bloke that owns the place just stepped out for a bit, but I'm pretty sure I can find you some nails and bulbs.'

Bending his head to the paper, he looked through narrowed eyes. The printed text was, what he thought to be, tiny and the letters a lifelong struggle to make into words. Henry had little, next to no, formal education and as a result was marked by inferiority to an expected standard of familiarity with language or literature. Hank had encourage him to try anyhow, but glaring hard into the paper didn't seem to be helping and being in the company of a customer made it somewhat more discouraging. He gave up after a brief amount of time, folding the paper and pocketing it. Looking back at the girl, Henry hesitated and tried to smile. He brushed his hair from his forehead with a nervous gesture.

'Stock list doesn't look like it's been brought up to date,' Henry lied, the corners of his mouth hinted at a possible - faked, laugh. He stepped out from behind the corner of the counter, dressed invariably in a pair of loose jeans and thin materialed slipover under his apron. 'Let's go look for them then.'

He began to walk leisurely, passing her first without speaking; appearing to be examining the items on the wall and noticing other articles lying about. Presently he paused, and turned to look his customer quietly in the eyes. Patting his name tag, his face resumed pleasantly. 'M'name's Henry. Here to help.'

[lizzie]

"Lizzie," she responded with a grin. "I have to say, it's lovely to meet someone else from the home country, if you will. I didn't think that I'd miss the UK as much as I do until I heard you talk," she admitted. "That must seem pretty pathetic, but it's true."

Laughing lightly at her own admission, Lizzie moved closer to Henry so that she could see the items she needed as soon as they came into view. Not that she wanted to escape as soon as she could, not when she had someone as charming as Henry appeared to be to talk to. Of course, she had learned the hard way to not judge a book by its cover. Oh, she still felt the same hate towards one Mr. Darcy as she had when she first met him, but there was reason to doubt her hatred.

"How long have you been in New York?" she asked lightly.

[ricketts]

Letting the girl pace to his side he checked shelf to shelf for a packet of nails or a bulb box with a sort of dull combativeness of persistency; then he stared with stupid wonder around the room. Suddenly many features struck him as being changed. Another ceiling tile was broken; an old piece of carpet was tacked down to the floor from ripping; and a lot of the items were mismatched despite being correctly placed when they arrived. Lazy customers, and lazy Hank for not fixing the little chances happening the the shop. Silly Henry for not noticing. The shop door had a bad habit of squeaking when opened, but they had an oil can as a temporary solution. As they passed he looked and there was no oil left in his can. Again he made that strange remonstrant noise in his throat. Then he looked again for around with the girl for her details.

With the same methodical step she kindly replied her own name, and deigned compliments to their foundationed United Kingdom. Much imbued with reactionary ideas, he cooly picked up a shelf item, examined it, put it back and sentimentally viewed her an appealing, shy smile. 'Can't say I had it in me' head to make you miss old Britannia, Lizzie. I'll apologize for that'un.'

Henry attributed a quiet, well-meaning chuckle, shook his head and looked back at the passing shelves. Obstinately he remained silent until Lizzie talked to him again, 'How long I been here?' He remarked, without much effort he moved his shoulders in some small thinking process. 'Not that long at all. Seems like a whole different world compared t' the little villages and countrysides that make up Ireland.'

He didn't laugh this time. Long familiarity with his disdain had deprived him of any string of yearning which Lizzie seemed to have, so far as Henry was concerned. Passive indifference he could suffer. It was only when he proceeded to an active manifestation of ingratitude as he thought more and more of his home place that he inflicted an irremediable sigh in the midst of their discussion and looked to the window. Ireland was a graceless place for him, and he didn't like to have it play on his mind. He liked New York, his new life. In such a street as this, every one knew each other: houses had no mystery; families, no secrets. Where idle curiosity had always a corner of the veil slyly raised, where gossip flourished as rankly as the grass on Central Park.

Rain spray was beginning to hit the shop window, dark clouds rolling above the skyscrapers. 'Weather doesn't look very good, does it?'