[ ๐ฌ๐ฎ๐ซ๐ซ๐๐ง๐๐๐ซ ] for adam!
to adam, the city's nights were as clear as day; light poured in from every direction, soft glows, bright neon colors, the slow blur of headlights. his baseball team had endured the thrill of a fast-paced game before venturing into the glimmering den provided by the world's metropolitan night life, a cacophony of talking and drinking and clinking glass and the indistinct noise of traffic.
he steps into the bar with a book in his hand, a curiosity and a straggler within his own group as they walk in front of him; adam's eyes scan the room, hoping for a quiet and relaxing place to rest after an hour of the adrenaline and sweat that tended to happen with baseball games.
when the man who called himself louis de pointe du lac walks into the warm, dim room, the atmosphere changes. a cool breeze follows him like a devout patron; an air that seemed, to him, a feeling people only described in poetry.
his pale eyes had seemed to fixate on adam's book, nested in his hand as he takes refuge at a corner table, sitting on a rickety wooden chair, leaning against the wall.
adam had forgotten the thrill of an intellectual conversation. louis seemed entirely sober, a rare somberness at the center of a relatively lively, tipsy crowd. adam must have looked out of place, out of his elements, isolated with himself.
there is a quality to du lac that seemed to allow him to move with a vital, otherworldly freedom, not quite cut from the cloth of nobility, but regal nonetheless. he sits on the empty chair on the other side of adam's table.
adam would not consider himself so full of intellectual prowess as to engage in heated debates, unless it was worth the trouble. the book was one of oku onuora's collection of poetry; a small boon to ease his mind, as he attempted to wrestle with the restlessness of his spirit without the alcoholic spirits that his baseball team seemed too eager to engage with.
du lac seemed to share adam's need for a metaphysical, personal connection through literature; adam felt as if it was less of a conversation, and more like a humble battle of wills.
"your knowledge is nearly encyclopedic, mr. du lac," adam concedes, as he absentmindedly thumbs the dog-eared pages of his book. "i won't waste my time arguing against that." he offers a smile, a flash of blunt teeth, "it's a nice change of pace, i'll admit."
