He adjusted the navy vest he had on, a sharp contrast to a white shirt smattered in profane loops of splintered graffiti. With a yellow thermal beneath, ribbed blue jeans and a pair of red Converse with fat gray tongues, Othell was nowhere near the epitome of fashion. He was however, straight in husky broad shoulders, a stance that was pin-hard and sturdy, enough so that strength was predominant in his presence. He faced her with a nearly feral stare, a harshness of glacial blue, curtained in gold lashes that opposed his russet locks. While he looked at her, she called to him, and none too gently, he brushed around the man in front of him and skipped over a scuttling toddler escaping through the door. As he neared, it was her voice that gripped him, an orderly, feminine tone feathered with decorated syllables. Just where did she come from? Visibly, his glare levitated on her face, prodding her sockets and seeing a lively sheen backed by brainy glimmer. When she smiled, her teeth were pearly and her carnation lips framed them perfectly, it was an attractive grin that almost flooded him. Othell actually smirked himself, it was small and puckered, obviously unused though not pained or dysfunctional.
Her eyes cast off from him, but his didn’t leave her face. “I don’t like coffee,” it was a grizzled pitch, partnered with a singsong lilt bare of inflection. His tone sounded messy, slogged – yet not with the normal pretenses of inebriation, it was indeed of another sort. Othell yanked out a chair and sat, without so much as awaiting her cue. He rolled the sleeves of the thermal, revealing the dark crests of floral design marking his flesh. It was a small fleet of cherry-kissed roses, backing the black arch of what could’ve been hunched shoulders, though they remained unseen. In his other hand was the thick manila folder that was his medical history, haggard and worn about the edges, ready to burst if not for a rubber band. He didn’t offer it to her however, he was busily investigating the tabletop, as though he could count each and every fingerprint left there.
“I don’t like doctors, either,” his jaw clenched, lumped on either side of his face, “…or anything, medical.” At this point, the lanky woman that was his mother would bat him on the bicep and apologize for his abrupt lack of manners. Othell didn’t see it as being rude though, he maintained tact, he was only being blunt. “I’ve been on this round-a-round for almost a year, and I’m getting tired of the bullshit. Either fix me, or don’t; decide what you’re gonna do and if it’s like that, leave me alone.” In a blink, his focal trailed upward, maybe to land and linger on her chest. Her shirt didn’t exactly hug her bodily lines and curving dips, but he could easily make-out what was beneath. He shook his head. “That’s not the point. I’d like to spend as little time in Murdoch as I can, and I thought…well, you know.” As if handing her his soul, he offered her the stack, sliding it across the table sluggishly. “Tell me whacha think.”
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