They say you can’t be all things to all people.

Obviously, they’ve never met Amor.

He’s looking soulful and poetic at a table by the window – funny, how when he walked into the coffee shop, a table by the window just opened up – chin propped up in one hand, weary gaze not focused on passers-by. He’s dressed all in black, though; mercifully, without beret or turtleneck, and his shoes are very nice. Expensive, and not wing tips.

His face is equally acceptable. He looks about thirty; old enough for concern to have chiseled lines, but young enough that dimples don’t seem out of place. Combined with dark hair (just a hint of curl) and matching eyes, skin that could only be called “porcelain,” however much the speaker tries to wrench themself away from cliche, and languid, almost feminine lines, Amor looks like the cover of a magazine, or the private nighttime fantasy of the blushing young woman in the corner...

Which, of course, is intentional.

A waiter sets a mocha valencia at his right hand, and Amor smiles glowingly at the man, who stammers out a few words of nonsense and leaves quickly. The smile fades, and Love turns back to the window.

In the reflection of the window, now, it appeared that there was a lanky man in the seat across from Amor. Pan observed his reflection for a moment, then Amor's, then turned to look at the other god. Already his fingers were playing across the surface of the table, drumming an offbeat tune lightly to a song that was only playing in his head. And it was a good song, but no one could hear it and for a moment he was disappointed but it was fleeting, because he wasn't quite sure how someone really felt disappointed.

He smiled gently at the other god. "'ello, mate." Drew his nails across the table. Not a screech, no, but a hum, one that reverbrates through the object.

“Hello,” Amor answers, glancing briefly at Pan. His voice is the final gift for the woman in the corner – a Croatian accent. He doesn’t look to see if she reacts to it.

“You aren’t the one I was expecting,” Amor says affably. He doesn’t sound particularly upset about it, but sweeps his gaze over the café, as if considering the alternatives.

“It’s been a while,” Love comments, finally meeting Pan’s eye. “What’ve you been up to?” He considers, then rejects, several impolite comments about the state of popular music. He doesn’t like it when he’s ignored by the mainstream forms of communication, but he can’t blame Pan for that. Much.

He waved his hand, the one that wasn't creating music, and shrugged dismissively. "This and that, this and that. And you?" He sounded genuinely interested, but were manifestations of 'this and that' ever genuine? It was something Pan wondered about.

It was hard to worry about existentialism when your existence was debated in the first place.

His fingers continued to drum against the table—bam bam, bam, bam bam bam—something specific highlighting the sounds, but indiscernible to someone who didn't know how to listen correctly.

He waved the waitress over. Ordered tea, just a taste of cream and a lump of sugar, please.

"And it has been awhile. Good to see you well."

“Oh, well, you know. ‘Same old story, same old song and dance.’ I turned my attention – elsewhere – for a few weeks, and that whole Bennifer fiasco got all out of proportion. But I have been working on a couple of new ideas. Well, new to this century, anyway. Certainly not anything that’s never been attempted before.”

Amor stares at Pan’s tapping fingers. “Am I boring you?” The accent pulls back the “r”s into velar territory, making the remark sarcastic without being catty. Amor notes it with an almost-disguised smile and resolves to use it again, preferably with some naive mortal.

The austere feeling to Amor's tone stilled his fingers. Pan lifted an eyebrow and flattened his hand on the surface, then offered a small smile. "You're not boring me, love." Was he even capable of being bored, when everything around him was so very interesting? His fingers began their music again, and the tea arrived.

"Aerosmith. Good choice." The smile quirked, and his tea arrived. Lifted the cup to his lips and blew the steam away, carefully. "That's quite interesting. The, er, whole 'Bennifer' situation." He waved his hand in dismissal. "In any account, what do you have in mind? Blimey, I'm all for a bit of all right. It should be interesting to watch, in the least."

"Well, if you must know," Amor leans forward conspiratorially, glancing left and right, though, of course, he knows where everyone is.

"Don't spread this around, I haven't brought it up with Az yet. I was going to try the old Dr. Faustus routine. But, of course, we'll need a mortal with the appropriate...qualifications." Amor smiles broadly, then sips his coffee.

"Any suggestions? And when I say suggestions, I mean mortals that'll tip the balance unfairly to me. This is a gamble I definetly don't want His-Haughty-Mightiness to win."

It was hard to say exactly what compelled Alana to go to a coffee house; for one, she hated coffee, and she was supposed to be working. But it was too early for a good job, and she happened to have wandered into this part of town, so why not have a drink to warm her up, where was the hurt in that?

Her favorite wool jacket was draped gently over one arm, to reveal a tee shirt of red satin paired up with low cut, tight legged faded jeans. Nearly stelleto heels were hidden by those jeans, with only the end of the toe being seen under the cuff. A small red flower was clipped into her raven curls, the flower being of the same hue as her shirt.

Stepping into the Coffee shop, the wafting smells of different teas almost overwhelmed her, tthough she persisted. Though, after she sat down at a seat not to far away from the window and ordered, she found that she was completely bored. She then took it unto herself to scope out potential customers, a habit that she had gotten into quite a while back.

If you hadn't guessed, Miss La Garza was a prostitute, not something that she was ready to share with the world, but she took pride in her work, so to speak. It was more than her job, it was her life, and she knew no other.