(408. Writers, at work,)
Robbie’s bleaching out his hair again, so he can put all the rainbow colors back in: the hotel room stinks of peroxide and chemicals. He’s perched on the edge of the bed, the picture of rapt concentration, flipping through the limited selection of channels on the television. Finally, he pauses on the one that shows the parking lot; it is the best thing on.
Cyril’s on the phone, sweet-talking his wife Mallorie: he’s got the phone-cord wrapped around his wrist like some kind of characture of a teenage girl.
Watching all this, Dio wonders why she’s the only one that’s working.
Cyril’s on the phone, sweet-talking his wife Mallorie: he’s got the phone-cord wrapped around his wrist like some kind of characture of a teenage girl.
Watching all this, Dio wonders why she’s the only one that’s working.