Where Are You Going...
"Where have you been?" The man on the corner had been waiting for the better part of an hour. The young man who joined him just grinned, showing white teeth framed by bright red lips. "Out in the world, Granddad, walking up and down upon it."
"Ridiculous," the older man snorted, handing over a file. "This is a serious one - it won't be easy, and a great deal is riding on your performance. There's no room for mistakes."
Smile still in place, the young man took the file. "I never make any. You can call this as good as done."
"I wouldn't be so sure," the older man began, but the young man was already walking away with a spring in his step. The faint sound of a whistled tune followed him away.
----------------------------------------------------------
"I apologize, Duela," Jonathan Crane said, "but it seems I'll be late to the reception. You won't mind going ahead of me, I hope?" He'd called her from the lab, not bothering to take a break from his work - or perhaps avoiding any discussion of the matter. "Edward's expecting you. He'll understand if you don't go to the readings, but if you can go to the after-gathering, that would be wonderful. I can meet you there."
--------
The reception spilled out of the formal room and onto the faculty garden green, as the guests and speakers mingled with the audience. Leftover programs detailing the event of the evening, "Poems and Polemics - Navigating Modern Britain," lay scattered across seats and tables. Small groups of people conversed, grouped by the bars, the sofas, the table of hors d'oeuvres, creating a low undertow of voices over the music produced by the pianist settled in a corner of the room. It was fairly easy to remain unobtrusive if one wished.
"Ridiculous," the older man snorted, handing over a file. "This is a serious one - it won't be easy, and a great deal is riding on your performance. There's no room for mistakes."
Smile still in place, the young man took the file. "I never make any. You can call this as good as done."
"I wouldn't be so sure," the older man began, but the young man was already walking away with a spring in his step. The faint sound of a whistled tune followed him away.
----------------------------------------------------------
"I apologize, Duela," Jonathan Crane said, "but it seems I'll be late to the reception. You won't mind going ahead of me, I hope?" He'd called her from the lab, not bothering to take a break from his work - or perhaps avoiding any discussion of the matter. "Edward's expecting you. He'll understand if you don't go to the readings, but if you can go to the after-gathering, that would be wonderful. I can meet you there."
--------
The reception spilled out of the formal room and onto the faculty garden green, as the guests and speakers mingled with the audience. Leftover programs detailing the event of the evening, "Poems and Polemics - Navigating Modern Britain," lay scattered across seats and tables. Small groups of people conversed, grouped by the bars, the sofas, the table of hors d'oeuvres, creating a low undertow of voices over the music produced by the pianist settled in a corner of the room. It was fairly easy to remain unobtrusive if one wished.