His drugstore digital wristwatch reads 01:17 in bold green digits. The scent of wet earth stands heavy in the air as he makes his way across the little Pretty Perfect trailer park, the hood of his black sweatshirt pulled over the plain black ballcap that is pulled over his short copper hair. He’s been living there for about a week now and plans to stay another before he hits the road again. Mostly, he doesn’t show his face; doesn’t leave his trailer during the day and only drives away in the white ‘92 Mitsubishi Lancer parked nearby in the cover of the night. An unlit cigarette is parked in the corner of his lips and, standing at the top of the few narrow stairs that lead up to a trailer that is not his own, he removes it before knowing a scarred fist against the door; not too loud or demanding which is, admittedly, unusual for him.
His head is ducked so that he could fit inside the doorframe or, rather, simply meet the younger man’s gaze when he answers it; about two inches too tall to do so comfortably, with his back straight. His arms are crossed over his chest and his eyes are lost in the deep shadow of his furrowed brows and the brim of his cap.
“Sorry to bother you this late. Won’t ‘appen to ‘ave a lighter or an extra box of matches in there, would you?”
Starter // @sweetwatered.
