#whileurmine.

muse: vincent peters. mid to late thirties. maybe early forties? renowned novelist, and connoisseur of films. closeted homosexual.

he’d never been much of a people person, much less a partier. vincent can’t help but throw his head and laugh when he sees someone he'd least expected since their last encounter, coughing after a long drag from smoking. “well, well, well, look who it is.” he shakes his head in disbelief, abusing the ashtray before his table. he’d sat alone, not by choice. his date had abandoned him out of necessity. “didn’t expect to see you again, much again hear you.”

there’s a smile below his sunglasses without a gleam that makes most people uneasy. it never reaches his eye but it always makes him feel some way. maybe happiness, but most likely empty, which is to be expected of someone who’s been the living, breathing heart of the entertainment business for many odd years. vincent peters is nothing but teeth. he gestures for them to come closer, crudely pouring one out into the bushes.

“so, what do you need? ‘side from the obvious. someone need’a go bye-bye?”