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</div><b>Name: Felix Reynolds<br/>
Age: 32<br/>
Date/Time: Friday, August 6th | Evening<br/>
Location: Villa --&gt; Beach<br/>
Wearing: Black button-up shirt, blue jeans, Rayban sunglasses<br/>
Tagging: Lydia (<a class="username" data-user-id="5347" data-username="Moka-chan" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://blackdahliaroleplaying.com/members/5347/">Moka-chan</a>)</b><br/><hr class="bbc-hr"/>Felix chuckled softly as he watched Lydia excitedly prattle on. She really did give off the aura of a young student, someone with big broad dreams and their head on a swivel through life. In a way, Felix longed for those days again, though maybe without all the studying and useless interpersonal stuff that came with it.<br/><br/>"That's a dream that needs some money Lydia. Sounds like fate brought us together then, for more than just a simple fling." He commented, cycling back to her aspiration of opening a shop. The words flowed easily for Felix, almost like he was reading a script by heart. Fate was such a stupid reason to fall in love. That a strong relationship could be forged by "destiny", predetermined... Such trash like that should stay in sappy youth novels. A lasting love was based on conviction and communication, not some roll of the dice by some unknown power that probably didn't even exist.<br/><br/>"Family though, hmm? I suppose mine was fairly average. A father that focused himself solely on work, and a mother that spent all his money on luxuries she didn't need and barely used. Getting out of their house for college was a godsend; not that they cared to parent me much in the first place. Results were everything to my father, and my mother always said whatever would keep her on his credit cards. I moved out the first chance I had and never really looked back." Felix mused, not very fond of the memories that forced their way to the surface of his mind as he spoke.<br/><br/>"I was third in line for valedictorian when I graduated. I offered my parents one last chance to be proud of their son, but neither of them were in the crowd. Now the only things they know about me are the handful of pictures on Facebook, and that I'm 'a horrible child that doesn't know the meaning of respect'." He scoffed loudly and shook his head, plastering on a smile before looking over at Lydia again. "The joke's on them I suppose. For people who were so concerned about public appearance, they'll have a hard time explaining to their friends why they don't know the names of their future grandkids."<br/><br/>"You said you're an artist...?<i>That's</i>an impressive craft. Especially if you're at the level to sell your skills. Anybody can do what I do, given enough basic knowledge, but art's something you have to have innate skill for, then put in the hard work on top of that. A talent all it's own. Even those street artists that get commissioned to do graffiti in downtown... You can always tell when someone actually knows what they're doing." The older man continued, switching the topic and going on his own little spiel, trying to subtly imply that Lydia could talk as much as she wanted without feeling overly conscious about it. "Maybe I'll have to add an art studio to the house then?"