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While 'cheap' wasn't the only requirement on Warwick's 'where to go for lunch' checklist, it was the first one -- followed by 'brightly lit', 'friendly waitresses' and 'no froofy bullshit'.

Diners were always the best. Unadventurous in his cuisine, frequently, Warwick liked the fact that he barely even had to look at the menu in a diner, as they all had effectively the exact same food. Burgers. French fries. Breakfast. Cheap meal platters with much too much food -- which he then proceeded to devour shockingly quickly, a fast metabolism burning through the calories at an alarming rate, sometimes.

This particular one he liked for the counter, littered with glass-covered pastry trays, coconut cream pies and brownies that teased from beneath their domes. The stools were round, adorned with bright cushions, and spun easily on their columns. At the counter, he could sit elbow to elbow with strangers and eat, instead of curling alone in a booth.

Today, it was quiet. The heat, perhaps, though he didn't seem to mind. There was a man reading a newspaper to his right, and even Warwick had the sense not to bother the man, even if the quiet made him fidgety and uncomfortable. To his left, the duffel bag sat sprawled crookedly across the free seat, threatening to tumble to the floor at his feet.

Warwick's own eyes lit up onto her, mouth full of probably too much egg for one bite, expression a bit stricken by the fact that he was chewing and thus couldn't answer her, couldn't say thank you, couldn't do anything but nod stupidly. He couldn't even smile, a fact which was almost physically painful.

He made up for it by scrambling to move his bag out of the way while he chewed, gesturing expressively with his hands, tattoos bright against bared arms. No words, but he could still get the point across perhaps: he appreciated it, it was nothing, a bumbling moment of confusion as he swallowed.

"...uh. Not the one I fell in, then, I'm assuming." There was his smile, finally, and all of him relaxed as it spread across his mouth. He tugged the duffel further out of the way so she could sit.

His smile flickered just a little [embarrassed, perhaps] as he reached out to take her hand: there might have been just a hint of color on his cheeks, but only a little bit. It wasn't the first time he'd fumbled, and it definitely wouldn't be the last. And she was here at least...

"Um. Uh. That's harder than it sounds." His voice, accented, held a mixture of laughter and -- barely-suppressed terror. People asked that all the time, as if it was as simple as one-two-three, Warwick told them how to do it and everything fell into place. In his experience, people weren't usually willing to work toward the goal, and it was often his fault when they couldn't sort it out.

"I mean, we can try, at least." Unfortunately, he never seemed to learn the lesson. "I'm Warwick."

It was a big damned bag; when straightened out, as opposed to crumpled and tucked in against his legs, it was probably about as long as Warwick was tall. Bulky and lumpy, it rattled a little as he kicked it, apparently unconcerned that he'd do damage to its contents. They were hearty, wood and metal more than anything else, the knives not only blunt but also sheathed, inside.

"Um. Yeah. Sorry it takes up so much room..." He stabbed at a piece of bacon, head still cocked so that he could watch her, both of his eyebrows raised in a questioning sort of way.

"Juggling tools, wood for the platform, a couple of uh, other things. I think there's a change of clothes, too, but it's probably dirty." He smiled at her, shrugged, and shoved the bacon into his mouth.

"Uh. Well." A pause, actually uncomfortable for about ten seconds -- and then he hauled his smile back, an easy mask, one shoulder rolling as he picked up a piece of bacon between two fingers.

"Well, my brother and I used to tour around together, we had a bunch of duo acts and things. If that counts as 'team up'." Why wouldn't it? Neither of them had ever, or would ever, be as good alone, he thought. Warwick bit off the end of the bacon, quiet for just a second.

"Not so much with strangers, though. Sometimes you're taking your life into your hands, trusting someone..."

The question made him cough around his bacon, choke a little, fumble for his glass of water to down it the rest of the way: clear shock, confusion, and maybe a hint of something bemused. She was very forward, very certain, considering she didn't even know his full name.

"...um, what?" His eyes were still watering, but at least he didn't sound horrified. He sounded amused as he cleared his throat, set down his fork. "I...do you have the kinda money you'd even need, for that? I mean. That's probably where you start, yeah?"

"I'm...I don't know..." He blinked up at her before she could leave, wiping at his mouth and digging for a proper explanation of his uncertainty. It wasn't just the money -- Warwick managed rather well without a lot of money, sometimes managed with less than nothing, but currently was doing just fine. Having a free place to stay helped with that considerably. Paying rent sucked, and so did living in a hostel.

"I'm not real good at organization, or. Bookkeeping. Or. Uh. Anything but performing, really." He flashed her a smile, not yet reaching for his fork again. He'd finish it off when she went to get her own food. Less chance of another surprise.

"...I am okay at that, though. So if that's all you'd want me to do..."

"--hey! What am I -- " But she was already gone, and Warwick was left holding onto the card. With his nature as it was, he couldn't help but feel a requirement to give her a call. Assuming he didn't lose it, and assuming he'd remember later, when he actually had time to spend working out the details of a potential circus.

It'd be when the weather started to cool, then, when it was harder to make money in the park, probably, before he thought of it again.