#thread: arya

Ji Na was excitedly walking to the book store, wanting to see her newest book on the shelves. She never thought she would be good enough to have an actual book published. And now she has two. She happily opened the door, noticing someone else going to the door. "Here, I'll hold it for you!"

bloodiedwolf

Nobody ever told him it’d be like THIS. That each and every goddamn sound would wake you in the night-- the sharp clack of a heel against the stained pavement below your window or the hushed argument from the apartment two doors down in the early hours of the morning. It reminds him too much of being inside; he’ll never forget the hollow echoes of barred doors sliding open and shut, open and shut, all night long for the guards to get in and out and make their periodic checks. He inhales deeply on the cigarette in his hand and pulls it away, glaring at it while holding in the toxic breath, letting it burn and eat away at his lungs. They didn’t tell you that either. That you’d come outta the clink with an unhealthy addiction to smokes (if you were lucky). The poor man’s tax, and goddamn if you didn’t pay it dutifully every single day.

The cigarette butt is sucked down and flicked to the pavement, ground beneath the heel of his boot and kicked haphazardly toward the gutter. Outta smokes, outta milk, outta deodorant, for chris’sake. The little SHITHOLE bodega on the corner was ‘bout as good as the commissary, but he came back again and again anyway.

                  ‘ Spirits. Unfiltered.

The words are automatic and they fall from his mouth before the cashier even looks up. Not that he’s being RUDE. The guy’s got that dead-eyed stare that seems to come with the job when workin’ customer service. Malcolm sighs and pulls a wad of bills from his pocket while the attendant turns around to unlock the plexiglass case. The ex-con looks over his shoulder, a smallish figure standing between the aisles and he knows that stance all too well. The theivish, half-confident and anticipating position that manifests a split second after the cashier turns. He almost misses it, and he can’t really say for certain, but he’s pretty sure they’ve just SNAGGED somethin’ off the shelves.

His attention is called back when the cashier slams the box of American Spirits on the counter and he looks up, shoving the crumpled money at him, but the man’s attention is on the other figure now moving toward the door. Mal knows the jig is up, but the kid don’t. He sighs. He’s been there. The cashier is about ready to say somethin’, he can see it, his hand is closing on the store phone so the ex-con does what’s natural and he covers for them. An elbow into the nearest display of crappy sunglasses sends them crashing across the chipped laminate counter and skittering across the floor.

                   “Shit, sorry-- here, sorry, keep the change.” Mal grabs the carton of cigs and slips out the door before the bells stopped chiming from the little thief’s exit.

He steps out into the sticky heat of summer. The thickness of the air is almost enough to put him off smoking altogether, but he’s already tapping the carton against the heel of his palm and his eyes catch a flash of dark clothing as it slips around a nearby corner. Slow, rolling steps carry him in that direction and he doesn’t really know why. The flick of the lighter accompanies him as he turns the corner, sucking in on the cigarette til the ember glows red.