(no subject)
Most of his time had been spent moping over his bad luck. Guevera’s surgical skullfuck had healed fast. There wasn’t anything left to scab over: bones don’t bleed. But the irony in the wound’s terminal blindness was a kick to the nuts, and all Sands wanted nowadays was a cigarette and quiet place to sit.
He was lounging outside the main building, wearing who-knows-what, with a clove cigarette clenched between his teeth. He knew the gloves were black, spattered with gray ash. That was all that mattered.
The wind came off salty on his tongue, faint but promising of beaches, and he wondered, vaguely, if his nose could be trusted to get him there without any help. They didn’t have money here. The promise of dinero wouldn’t turn any heads.
And Sands didn’t trust a free favor.
[ All welcome. ST encouraged, LT fine, as always. ]
He was lounging outside the main building, wearing who-knows-what, with a clove cigarette clenched between his teeth. He knew the gloves were black, spattered with gray ash. That was all that mattered.
The wind came off salty on his tongue, faint but promising of beaches, and he wondered, vaguely, if his nose could be trusted to get him there without any help. They didn’t have money here. The promise of dinero wouldn’t turn any heads.
And Sands didn’t trust a free favor.
[ All welcome. ST encouraged, LT fine, as always. ]