A real light enters her eyes, lightens her expression: this is something she's passionate about, and her enjoyment lifts her spirit, even if all she's enjoying is talking about it. "Most racers can't work their own cars. Racing got carpetbagged by rich kids a while back. But it's different when you drive the car and you made it, you can really feel it. So... yeah, I'm better'n average."
"A '87 Chevy Capri. I got it on sale at a police auction. Kept the paint job and everything." She speaks in the glowing tones one would use to describe a child. "Everything's just flatbed inside. Light as air."
She laughs, unable to stop herself. He's charming. She can't understand why he's trying to be charming to her-- maybe she's just easily charmed by his bullshit. It's not like that's never happened before. "That tends to happen before you buy a hat, yeah. What's your favorite cowboy movie, Mister Marshal?"
She tilts the brim back up, eyes bright despite herself. Her hair is mussed around her forehead, a thick strand falling over one eye.
They have, perhaps, too many shared interests. While Tombstone isn't her favorite, she's watched it enough to know several lines by heart-- it's not her fault they play it in hotels a lot. She won't quote it to him, though. She's easy one way, but she won't let herself be easy the other-- the way women sparkle on dates, desperate to soak up affection. She sips her drink and gestures for another.
"We all got our patriotism somewhere. I guess yours is more for smart-talking lawmen."
"Yeah, I liked that," he says with a slightly wistful smile. "With – uh, the lawyer guy from The Godfather, right? How old were you when that came out?" She must've been pretty young.
Raylan purses his lips for a moment. There's a very clear thought in his mind that he should probably find someone his own age, and then he ignores it. This is the part of his brain that's probably leading Art to an early grave.
"I watched it the same year I left here. Stands out pretty clear in my mind."
The expression on her face is sort of unreadable – or, no, it's not that. He can read it pretty clear, but it's hard to determine what she's so pleased about exactly, unless she likes an excuse to make jokes about a man's age. "Nineteen when I left. Dug coal for a while after I finished school, but there wasn't a whole lot keepin' me here."
Joan's expression stays transparently pleased, and a little smugger about it each moment. "Dug coal, ran away to the big city so you could become a law man?"
She tips the brim of his hat when she says it.
"And then you were tragically dragged back to the boondocks."
"Not Military City," she says. "But Houston's basically a different state. All them astronaut statues in Webster, shit. I'd take that over being an Okie in a heartbeat. But-" She taps the brim of his hat- "Texas is a lot fucking bigger'n Kentucky."
"Yeah, I know what that's like." Because she's far from home, because he'll never know the full details, because she wants him to like her, she says, "My daddy owed everybody in town at least five dollars, he was a boxer in the seventies and he had four identical fuckin' kids. Grew up dragging that behind me like cans on a wedding limo."
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She tilts the brim back up, eyes bright despite herself. Her hair is mussed around her forehead, a thick strand falling over one eye.
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"We all got our patriotism somewhere. I guess yours is more for smart-talking lawmen."
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"I watched it the same year I left here. Stands out pretty clear in my mind."
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She tips the brim of his hat when she says it.
"And then you were tragically dragged back to the boondocks."
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