Conspicuous, down trodden sigh escaped the confounds of the young man, hands complacently rested on the countertop of the modest shop, icy azure gaze kept to the empty glass mug in front him, awaiting his everyday morning starter, dark brewed coffee. Sleep still went with him, mainly because of the time, but also due to the fact he did not want to fully greet this sunshine peak, unpleasantness to his occupation in all. You could tell, it was written on his face. His fiery red hair seemed to be combed lazily once, a tidbit of casual, unshaved shadow along his chins level, and his eyes unable to remain open more than a minute. For Isaac, that happened to be abnormal.

“There ya go, sir,” the waitress pronounced energetically, pouring the black beverage in practiced skill. Isaac handed over the accounted amount, voluntarily dismissing the waitress, then took a thin sip, the hot liquid providing a good jolt. He put the handle down, airy steam rolling off the drink. He only knew himself to take his coffee that way. He supposed it to be in habit- he remembered having it dark since much younger years. This time around Isaac ventured to take a heartier bit, trying to assuage the burning feeling in his throat as he downed it all.

Alright, now he could admit to regaining sense. The reality of his move just sank in, like it did regularly. No longer did he reside in barren old Texas, no longer was he, in a word, a phone call away from his parents. Boy, how that satisfied him. Although he worried about his brother back home, it had its perks here. He enjoyed being somewhat accomplished, in-between everything he settled, his apartment, his job, even his horse, finding at reluctance, ground. Happy, happy, right? Not really. Isaac never got everything he wanted.

There wasn’t a specific Arabian stable on these parts. Strictly thoroughbred, so he saw. And as idealistic as ‘Tack Shop Owner’ was, it also did not take an inch step nearer to his equine training career. Talk about working your way up. Before he could officially start his new training occupation, his priorities got him to instead, hopefully, begin an Arabian facility. Isaac slouched in his backless chair, thoughts weighing his conscience, quenching a copious amount while the blonde waitress came to his again, “I’m fine,” he said. She left the cup there, employment rules, until he would leave. No doubt he would ask for more later.

Wow, waitresses were devious. He found himself staring at the empty mug, sitting there meaninglessly, yet unable to walk out of the shop, and so to occupy his otherwise blank time, he indirectly ordered another cup. She appeared smug enough that her method worked. Nonetheless, he gratefully took it, turning his head out of curiosity to see who walked in (the family run breakfast/lunch joint, of course, beheld a chiming bell to every time the door opened). One more person. He did not recognize her immediately, her countenance a bit withdrawn to the paperwork, but eventually he recalled her familiar looks or more so what he remembered them by, the thoroughbred stables.

He toured the place before, no more than a week ago in fact, a little disgruntled that his options equaled to one, even if the racing ranch was pretty decent. Ah well, he could deal; he just needed to muster the endurance to crawl back helplessly. The time came to now as the best occurrence to ask her about boarding, stealing unnoticeable, one-second glances to her table, all the while sipping his coffee in all casualty to the rest of the room. How demeaning could it be to ask? For one’s thought process as meticulous as Isaac’s, plain hard. It felt like one of those television groan moments, a little less dramatic minus the complaint that he had no other reasonable choice. It could not be that bad.

Oh, though, the thought of her giving him a vague look irked him. He set his finished mug down, slunk out of his seat, then, strolling past, he lifted one elbow onto her round table, half hunched near the only other chair, not quite sitting, not quite standing. It said a lot. He ruffled his hair in the back of his head, defined brow raising as he spoke, “Kristy right? Yeah, owner of Mountain Springs. Okay, so here’s what it is, I can’t seem to find another stable. Lucky you. Maybe a temporary thing, but until then, I was wanting to board my Arabian there,” Isaac said, pausing at intervals to add more of an affect, no advertising here.

Defend his case for an Arabian he would. He would not pull out the hard hitting reasons less she asked. Again, Isaac wasn’t too keen on sharing his vocabulary much- he expected to save a trip of sentences in keeping it short, sweet, and to the point.