There's a small man on the beach, covered in blue-green fur, smoking a cigarette. A bandaged tail swishes idly in the sand.
As the crew of the Mipha's Grace trickles homeward for the day, Capochin catches Curly's eye and nods. Maybe Curly recognizes him from his rather intense opera. Capochin surely recognizes Curly from his.
He stills, salted and damp. Dripping into the sand. A man who loses against the ocean daily, but continues into it the next day. Something about the way it tosses him.
Curly nods back, considers saying something. Feels social inspiration slip in granules through his fingers. He doesn't want to be a bother. Doesn't want to interrupt. When did speaking get so hard? He knows when.
Fuck it.
Large, rubber boots trample through the sand. As he nears, Capochin might catch whiffs of salt and fish.
"You betcha. Always do." Capochin produces another, and his lighter. It'd be easy to say no if he didn't feel like sharing, but frankly, this guy could probably use a cigarette.
"Drain of a party these demons throw, eh? Wouldja believe I used'ta like opera?"
He really shouldn't smoke. His lungs are bad, even posthumously. (Is that psychosomatic? He can't bring himself to think about it). But it's an easy social in, the first step through the doorway to a real conversation, and he can't help taking it. Tucking it between his lips, he lights it and takes a long, unsteady drawl.
"Hah... Not anymore, right?"
Blue ribbon, pulled like film from a busted cassette. Presented to his God.
"You and your friends put on a real show." The sentence feels rude, and he backtracks. "I mean that— I don't know. I felt myself in your shoes. What you were doing, it's..." Grant shakes his head. Exhales smoke. "Heavy stuff."
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On Tawny Beach, after Curly's shift
There's a small man on the beach, covered in blue-green fur, smoking a cigarette. A bandaged tail swishes idly in the sand.
As the crew of the Mipha's Grace trickles homeward for the day, Capochin catches Curly's eye and nods. Maybe Curly recognizes him from his rather intense opera. Capochin surely recognizes Curly from his.
no subject
Curly does recognize him. Hard not to, you know?
He isn't entirely sure what to do about it.
He stills, salted and damp. Dripping into the sand. A man who loses against the ocean daily, but continues into it the next day. Something about the way it tosses him.
Curly nods back, considers saying something. Feels social inspiration slip in granules through his fingers. He doesn't want to be a bother. Doesn't want to interrupt. When did speaking get so hard? He knows when.
Fuck it.
Large, rubber boots trample through the sand. As he nears, Capochin might catch whiffs of salt and fish.
"You got another one of those?"
no subject
"Drain of a party these demons throw, eh? Wouldja believe I used'ta like opera?"
no subject
He really shouldn't smoke. His lungs are bad, even posthumously. (Is that psychosomatic? He can't bring himself to think about it). But it's an easy social in, the first step through the doorway to a real conversation, and he can't help taking it. Tucking it between his lips, he lights it and takes a long, unsteady drawl.
"Hah... Not anymore, right?"
Blue ribbon, pulled like film from a busted cassette. Presented to his God.
"You and your friends put on a real show." The sentence feels rude, and he backtracks. "I mean that— I don't know. I felt myself in your shoes. What you were doing, it's..." Grant shakes his head. Exhales smoke. "Heavy stuff."
no subject