MUST BE A TALENT, how a plume of smoke already spills past his lips the moment he exits the cab. the sun has set, but the sky is still a merry shade of periwinkle. dastardly early for him — late for others. and so it goes.
fingers reach to pluck the deathstick from between pale lips, tapping the ash at the bottom with a quick flick choosing to linger by the entrance until there’s none left to burn. it must be his fifth restraining order now, give or take. he reckons it’s karma of some sort, to be confined to the repetition of a situation that’s become a cosmic joke.
it takes him a few drags to acknowledge the presence — still as a sentinel over his shoulder. ❝ either you’re a paralegal and your boss is piece of shit, or you’re waiting to make eye contact so you can start preaching social justice, hashtag me too yada yada, don’t smoke whatever campaign, in which case, yeah — i’m trying to go to hell quicker, message received. ❞ //. @deathspinner
