For Glen [backdated to November 22nd]
The morning after the party found Lloyd understandably worse for wear. The dry pounding in his head was comfortably familiar, even if the sand in his hair wasn't -- he had no idea how it had gotten there, but he was grateful it was in his hair, at least, not in less pleasant parts.
He hit the showers as soon as he managed to climb out of bed and force himself to walk to the compound. A good, long shower could cure just about anything. Okay, maybe not, but at least it got the sand out and mellowed the headache a little. When he looked closely in the mirror, he could still see the brown-gray-ish mark under his eye, a no longer impressive leftover from Glen Bateman's fist print. What was impressive that it had lingered for so long - three weeks were a fucking century in black eye years - almost like it was trying to tell him something.
Yeah, all right, he got the message.
A face-off with the clothes box resulted in a decent pair of jeans and a white polo that looked almost freshly ironed. Lloyd straightened the collar, belatedly realizing he was trying to look respectable, like he was going to a court hearing or something.
He guessed that wasn't too far from the truth.
Glen's place was a three minute walk from the boarding house, a fact that, once Lloyd had stopped freaking out over, had allowed him to lay nice and low for a while, since his room was actually a pretty good lookout position.
But, small island, right? He couldn't keep hiding forever. Didn't really want to, either. He'd jotted down some points in his notebook, and standing outside Glen's door, he quickly skimmed over them, trying to refresh his memory and calm down some.
Jesus fuck, after spending a few months with Flagg, coming to see an old geezer wasn't supposed to be this big a deal. He stashed the notebook back in his pocket, and after a minute or two of just standing there trying not to fidget, he finally found the resolve to knock. His next instinct was to turn and quickly walk away, but come on, ring the bell and run? Sure, that was real mature. No, this was it. Now or never. He bit down on his lip, stuck his hands in his pockets, and waited.
He hit the showers as soon as he managed to climb out of bed and force himself to walk to the compound. A good, long shower could cure just about anything. Okay, maybe not, but at least it got the sand out and mellowed the headache a little. When he looked closely in the mirror, he could still see the brown-gray-ish mark under his eye, a no longer impressive leftover from Glen Bateman's fist print. What was impressive that it had lingered for so long - three weeks were a fucking century in black eye years - almost like it was trying to tell him something.
Yeah, all right, he got the message.
A face-off with the clothes box resulted in a decent pair of jeans and a white polo that looked almost freshly ironed. Lloyd straightened the collar, belatedly realizing he was trying to look respectable, like he was going to a court hearing or something.
He guessed that wasn't too far from the truth.
Glen's place was a three minute walk from the boarding house, a fact that, once Lloyd had stopped freaking out over, had allowed him to lay nice and low for a while, since his room was actually a pretty good lookout position.
But, small island, right? He couldn't keep hiding forever. Didn't really want to, either. He'd jotted down some points in his notebook, and standing outside Glen's door, he quickly skimmed over them, trying to refresh his memory and calm down some.
Jesus fuck, after spending a few months with Flagg, coming to see an old geezer wasn't supposed to be this big a deal. He stashed the notebook back in his pocket, and after a minute or two of just standing there trying not to fidget, he finally found the resolve to knock. His next instinct was to turn and quickly walk away, but come on, ring the bell and run? Sure, that was real mature. No, this was it. Now or never. He bit down on his lip, stuck his hands in his pockets, and waited.