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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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