Corrigan’s thoughts are trying to puzzle out how someone so small, so delicate can still be mostly legs, so he doesn't respond to the handshake right away. Then there's the flash of braces and "I'll take anything" and it's only years of practicing a poker face that keeps him from smirking slowly and responding "oh yeah, I bet you will."
The hesitation is only a couple seconds, but it's so out of character that Corrigan is sure he comes across as short, rude even when he briefly shakes Kurt’s hand and immediately turns to start moving boxes. "Mmm, yes. Reception." The boxes are mostly files, old accounts that the previous owner never made digital, like it's the goddamn 1950s. Corrigan hefts a couple of them to make room in a chair, aware that he's definitely going to sweat through his dress shirt by the end of the day.
"Please, have a seat," he calls over his shoulder as he sets the boxes down, pulling off his suit jacket to try and alleviate the already-starting sweat. "You're one of the, ah -- permanent residents, if I remember correctly?" It had seemed like an odd way to run a business, but maybe that's why the previous owner -- nervous and fidgety and desperate to skip town -- had been so eager to sell. He'd told Corrigan something about the residents being an integral part of the hotel, but by that point the papers were already drafted and Corrigan just didn't care.
Now he's a little more curious. He'd expected the residents to be withdrawn, wary people down on their luck, needing a place to lie low. Kurt is bright and chipper and beaming, all big eyes and silky hair and legs. So he leans a hip against the desk, crossing his arms and prompting: "What's that like? Living here?"
no subject
The hesitation is only a couple seconds, but it's so out of character that Corrigan is sure he comes across as short, rude even when he briefly shakes Kurt’s hand and immediately turns to start moving boxes. "Mmm, yes. Reception." The boxes are mostly files, old accounts that the previous owner never made digital, like it's the goddamn 1950s. Corrigan hefts a couple of them to make room in a chair, aware that he's definitely going to sweat through his dress shirt by the end of the day.
"Please, have a seat," he calls over his shoulder as he sets the boxes down, pulling off his suit jacket to try and alleviate the already-starting sweat. "You're one of the, ah -- permanent residents, if I remember correctly?" It had seemed like an odd way to run a business, but maybe that's why the previous owner -- nervous and fidgety and desperate to skip town -- had been so eager to sell. He'd told Corrigan something about the residents being an integral part of the hotel, but by that point the papers were already drafted and Corrigan just didn't care.
Now he's a little more curious. He'd expected the residents to be withdrawn, wary people down on their luck, needing a place to lie low. Kurt is bright and chipper and beaming, all big eyes and silky hair and legs. So he leans a hip against the desk, crossing his arms and prompting: "What's that like? Living here?"