Silhouettes and Smoke Screens â Elsie & Edmond
It had been quite some time since he had been to the clubhouse on solely âparty businessâ as it was often referred to, or at least thatâs what he found himself calling it. Being there for no other reasons than to drink, smoke, and--like most men were certainly looking forward to--getting together in various ways with the crow eaters was certainly strange. In truth, he had never been much of a sexually driven person, finding greater reward in working on his bike or doing a crossword puzzle over coffee. The adrenaline he had experienced in bed could be found in a simple ride along a stretch of terrain, and so he often kept away from the latter of the three options this night offered.
He had spent the last couple of hours taking care of their guests, and taking care not to get harassed for reading the evening newspaper behind the counter at the bar. The hour was growing late, although he knew better than to assume that the party would be stopping or moving elsewhere anytime soon. When the clock had struck twelve, he decided there was no better time than the present to take a smoke break, and so he made his way out back.
Many of the crow eaters were women that returned on more than one occasion, and there were a number of them who had become regulars, in a sense. It was these women who had taken their swing at the foreigner, only to fall short and find themselves telling those who followed that he was probably âjust some infertile French sod anyhow.â This turn of phrase, of course, had not been shared directly, but overheard by one of the old ladies who had been... kind enough? to relay it with him. His reaction was one to go down in the books, for he simply blinked and replied, âWell, theyâre wrong.â No violence, just a smug smile as he turned back to his breakfast and crossword, marking down the name of a female dog on nine across: B I T C H.
A rumble of laughter sounded behind him, breaking him from his numbing thoughts as his back faced the ajar rear door of the clubhouse. He was perched on one of the rickety picnic tables, nursing a cigarette through alcohol stained lips when he raised his head to observe an approaching silhouette. It was of a shorter person, one who was certainly much leaner than himself and apparently quite lost. Taking a deep drag of the cancerous smoke, the man watched the shifting black mass, prepared to throw a few nasty words in its direction, that is, until the figure made its identity known. The wooden table creaked as he leaned back.
âAnd where do you think youâre going?â the Frenchman asked, his accent surely a misrepresentation of his place of birth, for now it sounded like nothing more than a dull hum of European linage on his tongue. He raised a brow, smoke streaming from his nose as he offered her a closed-lipped smile.
