TWO ASSHOLES STAND OUTSIDE A BAR...
Location: The pub in the village, some time close to dark.
@jacklevesque
He was beginning to feel like a car left idling at the top of an icy hill. Driver gone, parking brake off. The quiet crunch of snow starting beneath the rear tires. It was happening slowly, but it was happening- with a certainty born from previous experience, Peter recognized the sensation of slipping for what it was. Slowly, but inevitably, he was backsliding.
Only a week into the semester and he’d already slept through two classes. Two. For now that was easy enough to explain away, to make up the work and pretend that it didn’t matter. It was only the first week and he didn’t normally slack, so a couple incidents meant nothing in the long run. But at this point in the winter, he was wearing thin both inside and out- and knowing this, knowing that he was in danger of exposing himself to the few who might take notice, he was phasing into avoidance. Break had meant no classes and no reasons to leave his room. By now the inescapability of those four walls had started to make him feel like a kenneled dog- so instead, he’d been spending longer hours sequestered in music rehearsal rooms, doing no rehearsing, or taking solitary trips down to the village bar. When Pearl texted to ask what he was up to, he lied. Said he was practicing or getting ahead on work. What was another secret added to the rest? He’d easily found room for it amongst the crowding of his other guilts.
The bar was entering its busiest hour. That coupled with the boiling heat from the fireplace was enough reason for him to finally scrape back the stool and make his escape, leaving a few mismatched Euros behind. Now, Peter stood by the door with his shoulders folded inwards, ashing his cigarette into the snow and gazing with no expression at the other patrons spilling out- whenever the door opened and released some warmth, he tried not to shudder gratefully. There were two guys lingering outside, loudly swapping laughter and thick-tongued German as he looked down and considered his own boot prints in the snow. Ey! Hallo! Aufwachen! Peter looked up. One was making hand motions in his direction. Both of them had eyes that were too small and bleary for their wind-chapped faces; they were probably farmers’ sons, drinking themselves stupid. Kann ich 'ne Kippe abstauben schnorren? Peter shook his head, dropping his gaze as he dragged on his cigarette, not caring enough to play charades. The man tried again. Sprechen Sie Deutsch? Then he seemed to realize what the real problem was, and his eyes rolled towards his companion with a sneer forming; he enunciated his next words with disdainfully-clear English that Peter suspected had been there all along. Na sicher, fucking Augustine asshole. He spat once on the snow. Just like that, the two of them lost interest, turning away. Peter for his part didn’t look up; along with the exhaustion and the overall apathy, there came a shortness of temper that he knew he had to be careful with. But his anger- sensing opportunity- was already stirring. “Sprechen Sie dick,” he muttered, only to himself and the empty air- not noticing that the bar door had opened yet again, and ushered someone else out into the cold night.
