--in the midst of it all.Brian Grant sits forward, the old wooden chair creaking with the movement as he writes. It's part of his routine. Come home from work, take his meal, pen an entry in his journal
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Johnny O'Brian is returning home from the bar. He's disappointingly devoid of female company, but he supposes it can't be helped. We can't get lucky all the time.
It's a cool night with a pleasant breeze, which wakes the tired man up a bit. Pausing under a streetlight, he rubs his neck, checks for his wallet, searches his pockets for a cigarette. At last he finds a pack and retrieves one. Now for a lighter.
He's tired, but doesn't feel like going home just yet; you never know what's going to happen on a night like this.
A figure is walking toward him, quietly, stepping into the light. The brim of his hat casting the upper portion of his face in shadow. His white beard seems to gleam in the light.
"Not too bad, no," Johnny says, digging into a back pocket with one hand. This guy seems to think he's in some sort of noir flick, but that's no reason not to be friendly. "Got a light? I know I've got here somewhere..."
Mr. Grant does look harmless, but the smoker isn't quite at ease, either. Something in his gut tells him to keep talking, so he does. "That's what my girl is always telling me," he says, holding the cigarette to the flame.
Anyway, that's not unusual. Johnny's mouth runs off without him a lot of the time, most of it lies, and why should this day be different than any other? "She always wants me to quit, but I just can't pull it off, you know? So I've got to smoke outside now. It's not so bad now, but come winter..." He breathes in and out deeply, exhaling a plume of smoke. "You smoke?
"How long ago was that?" Johnny asks. That may be impertinent, but that's sort of the point. His eyes are fixed right where the other man's probably are under the shadow of that hat.
"Several years ago." Funny, he can't remember quite how many. Doesn't matter. "Car accident. They said she was lighting up while driving and skipped the curb right into a light pole."
"Jesus," says Johnny. "God," he adds, then, "Wow." That's roughly the only appropriate response he can think of. He glances at his cigarette for a moment. Doesn't keep him from taking another drag, though.
Grant shrugs. He doesn't seem to be moved by any of it. "It was a long time ago."
He takes off his hat; the man is bald underneath, shaved in the last few weeks but let to grow again. He smiles, but it's more of an approximation of a smile.
"What are you doing out this late at night? You look like the sort who would have a car."
Johnny makes his living reading people, more or less, seeing in their movements what they need to hear to do what he wants them to do-anything from giving him a twenty in exchange for two fives, to writing him a check for five thousand dollars. He plays people, and he's good at it. But it doesn't take a player to see that that's not a real smile. That's just spooky
( ... )
It's a cool night with a pleasant breeze, which wakes the tired man up a bit. Pausing under a streetlight, he rubs his neck, checks for his wallet, searches his pockets for a cigarette. At last he finds a pack and retrieves one. Now for a lighter.
He's tired, but doesn't feel like going home just yet; you never know what's going to happen on a night like this.
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"Lovely night."
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"Nasty habit," he says mildly.
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Anyway, that's not unusual. Johnny's mouth runs off without him a lot of the time, most of it lies, and why should this day be different than any other? "She always wants me to quit, but I just can't pull it off, you know? So I've got to smoke outside now. It's not so bad now, but come winter..." He breathes in and out deeply, exhaling a plume of smoke. "You smoke?
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"No, I do not." Grant flips the lighter closed and pockets it. "My wife did; the lighter was hers."
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He takes off his hat; the man is bald underneath, shaved in the last few weeks but let to grow again. He smiles, but it's more of an approximation of a smile.
"What are you doing out this late at night? You look like the sort who would have a car."
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The smile disappears and the man's face falls back to a neutral arrangement.
"Of course. You mustn't let anyone control you."
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"Women can be very inflexible. They can run your life. I live alone these days. It's much easier.
"But you are happy, yes? You will have a child and things will become pleasantly complicated."
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Grant nods and studies Johnny intently.
"What was your name again? I don't think you said."
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