Mateo
Unaware of his first customer of the day waiting for him to open up shop, Mateo is taking a leisurely walk down from La Verbena and into the Plaza, his boots (decorated with tawny blink hare fur) crunching through the salted cobblestones, his forest green coat buttoned high. A scarf - knitted in various shades of orange - is looped at least twice around his neck and still long enough to nearly trail at the backs of his legs, fluttering in the chill gusts of wind as he rounds the corner.
There's a cup of something hot and spiked and caffeinated in his gloved hands, and he's just pushing back the hood of his coat to muss his curls into place when he spots a vibrant pink windbreaker, a gaggle of children, and some bubbles.
"Ah, Kaisel," Mateo trills. "What trouble are you in to need flowers at this hour?" It must be dire to need to apologise quite so early in the morning, he thinks.
There's a cup of something hot and spiked and caffeinated in his gloved hands, and he's just pushing back the hood of his coat to muss his curls into place when he spots a vibrant pink windbreaker, a gaggle of children, and some bubbles.
"Ah, Kaisel," Mateo trills. "What trouble are you in to need flowers at this hour?" It must be dire to need to apologise quite so early in the morning, he thinks.
i've told you time and time again
i'm not as think as you drunk i am
i'm not as think as you drunk i am
