One of the good things about the time difference between here and home is that you can get utterly wasted one day, go home and recover for three days and come back looking like you're immune to hangovers. Ramon likes that. And he's here again now, reading a Portuguese local newspaper that he picked up this afternoon. The headline reads something
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Tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed and pale-olive skinned. Watching with something alike either friendly amusement or curiousity.
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'What?'
He doesn't recognise him, but that never stops him being rude.
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Somehow not sounding smug.
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Sounding irritated, naturally.
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But tonight is about savouring, not tasting, so she licks her lips and tries for a smile.
"Ramon."
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'You again.'
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His annoyance amuses her, and there's laughter in her voice.
"I have money, for you."
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His eyes flick up now, and it's his turn to look pleased.
'Well, tough. I don't have the gun with me tonight. You should have got the money when you said you would.'
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When he spots Ramon, however, he gives a faint smile.
"Anything interesting?" If he spoke Portuguese, he'd have checked himself.
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'Some asshole got hit by a car.'
Well, he hadn't been wearing reflective clothing. Ramon feels it was the guy's own fault. No matter that he'd seen him in plenty of time to move.
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He shakes his head, setting down his pen and book for the moment.
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Ramon smiles the first genuine smile in weeks, because death amuses him when he's bored. Or when he's not. Whenever, really.
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