Bit of Boring Six: Isadora

NOTE: this feature's Xavier's mum from generation nine, so you might wanna skim the last three chapters, in case you would like a refresher.

   "And why should I trust you?” She raised an eyebrow, eying the short man who, based on the stubble across his face, needed to shave, fondly, over the counter.

   “I love you.”

   “Ah, please.” She rolled her eyes, fluffing her hair. “Love is, so, so... passe”

   “How’d you’re father screw up?”

   “An overused term we humbly use to justify guilting people into caring or staying. That’s what love is, doll.”

   “I’ve been promoted to doll now, have I? Why, compared to your past term of affection,  ‘you goddamn fool’, that must be a supreme term of endearment preserved only for those who you truly care for. I’m presuming you’re screw up of a father was only refereed to as a goddamn fool.”

   “And rightly so, I might add.”

   “C’mon, Isadora. Spill it.”

   “I’ll spill it as soon as you spill that bottle of gin into a glass.”

   “It’s ten after three.” He sighed, knowing that his curiosity to know about her past would win out, against his better judgement.

   Isadora was an attractive, strong willed female who found joy in putting herself at risk, just to simply defy the stereotypes she was often saddled with. The brunette didn’t seem to apprehend the irony of her relationship with him, however; it was eleven am, the bar wasn’t going to open for at least another five hours, the girl, dressed in fishnets, four inch heels, and leather, picked the lock of the door, slid onto a bar stool, and told him, the barkeep, to eff her. He aptly replied that he already had. She smiled, raised an eyebrow, introduced herself, and demanded a gin and tonic.

   “Screw up is such a crude word, I prefer was never there for me as a child and, in a drunken stupor, ended up groping my tutor.”

   “You had a tutor?” When they first met, she told him he’d never meet anyone wittier, he asked if she meant to say vainer. He’d assumed she was cunning enough to convince whichever teacher she’d had to pass her.

   “I was in high school, you goddamn fool. I was failing chemistry cause I called the teacher a sexist pig, he got P.O’d and gave me a C minus on my final, I offered to not tell his wife that he tried bondage with one of the cafeteria ladies if he raised it to a B, he dropped it to an F. Some preppy honors girl was assigned to me. My school thought I gave a damn about chem, they were-”

   “Goddamn fools. You need a new insult that’s less insulting to anyone who even slightly believes in a higher power.”

   “Look doll, I don’t care. My father swore up and down to be Catholic, went to mass and that crap, I didn’t, yet he’s in jail for sexually assaulting that prissy, minor, bitch tutor and I’m here.”

   “Circumstantial evidence.”

   “Look, you a bartender, a therapist, a priest, or what?”

   “I prefer to think of myself as a friend.”

   “I don’t trust you.”

   “Don’t have to, I trust you.”

   “You might be the only one.”

   “Someone has to be the first.” His first girlfriend, first serious girlfriend, broke up with him because she’d said he had a superhero complex. He was intrigued by those who were broken, she’d claimed, said he thought he could fix them. He never dated a phycology major again. 

   “Look, I dunno what they teach you in bartender training, but I’m not gonna pay for my drinks just cause you tried to sound deep.”

   “You owe me two hundred euros.”

   “How much is that in American?” She knew asking him to convert things into United States currency exasperated him.

   Leopoldo Cucinotta, whose family had perpetually dwelled in the fair sized, southern Italian city of Monte Vista, a rustic town that was built within the walls of ancient brick, was surrounded by hills, a few sprawling parks or family homes, and, if you ventured far enough, the beginning of the ocean thought since Isadora, a variation of the Italian name Isidora, had resided in Italy for the past eleven months, should be courteous enough to learn the exchange rates. At least her parents had been adamant about teaching their first generation American children, including their only daughter, who’d had the misfortune of being born into a traditional family with four sons, Italian.

   “Two-fifty.”

   “Dollars? I believe I have that much pocket change.”

   “Hundred. Two hundred-fifty dollars, which is quite a large sum considering that we’ve only known each other six months.”

   “Please, that’s about three three dollar, or two euros and forty cent pieces, drinks a month. Nothing impressive about that.”

   “Tell that to my boss. He perpetuates the stereotype.”

   “Is he an amazing lover who has a big family, says mamma mia often, lives with his parents, and eats pasta everyday?”

   “He’s rude.”

   “Ah, well that isn’t nearly as interesting.”

   “Regardless, you need to pay for your beverages.”

   “It’s cute that you think I will.”

   “I’m going to cut you off.”

   “I dare you.” She chuckled, raising an eyebrow, knowing he wouldn’t. They’d known each other six months, yet somehow, whether it be based off of Isadora’s wit and lack of boundaries, or Leopoldo’s need to decode any semi-mysterious woman who happened to waltz into his life, they’d become rather close.

   “I will.”

   “Leo you-”

   “Leopoldo, you know I don’t like nicknames.”

   “Ah, well, that’s unfortunate, since I’m too lazy to pronounce you’re full name. Now, if you would let me finish my point. You wou-”

   “Isadora Vespa.” A gruff voice stated, not questioning whether t the woman was who he thought she was. The man had managed to file into the room, silently. She didn’t bother turning to see who he was, she assumed it was some long forgotten acquaintance.

   “I’m quite busy, besides, isn't it rather rude to interrupt someone? I was about to make a point.” She mouthed some profanities concerning to voice to Leo who, despite being naturally tan, had paled a dramatic amount.

   “I wouldn’t-” He began whispering.

   “Leo! If you have something to say, simply spit it out.”

   “I wouldn’t say that to him.” His voice was still hushed, his face still pale.

   “Why? What can someone like him do to me?” She chuckled. “Now how about that drink?”

   “Ms. Vespa, I’m afraid you will have to come with me.”

   “No, I don’t.” She said, spinning around to see who the commanding figure was. Her sharp tongue was dulled, her wit subsided temporarily, as she saw the uniform.

   “Ms. Vespa, please come with me to the station. If you fail to cooperate, I will arrest you.”

   “Hm, well, you don’t happen to be a vary thematic stripper, do you?” She retorted, instead of holding her tongue and politely obeying. She stood up, smoothed her outfit, and, with a slight wave to Leo, who stood in shock wondering what mischief the self proclaimed rebel could have gotten herself into, sauntered off with the officer.