[ The bar on level fourteen is as glossy and empty of other people as it always is, and Charles is neatly dressed in sweater and shirt and slacks and shiny brown shoes. He already has a glass in one hand and a cigarette in the other, and he's brought his record player with him as a kind of white noise substitute for voices of past and present, whispering ever at the edges of his brain.
The song that's playing is something by Jefferson Airplane. If he really thought about it, he'd remember he never received that album in his locker.
But he's not thinking about it. The drink is Dalmore, the whiskey that Ilde had given him before he kissed her on this very bar top, and the cigarettes are from home too, the pack he had received and used up some time ago, but these strange details are only cohesive threads woven into the tapestry pulled around him while he, in reality, sleeps.
The ribbon of smoke lifting off the end of burning cigarette seems random enough to trick him. ]
no subject
The song that's playing is something by Jefferson Airplane. If he really thought about it, he'd remember he never received that album in his locker.
But he's not thinking about it. The drink is Dalmore, the whiskey that Ilde had given him before he kissed her on this very bar top, and the cigarettes are from home too, the pack he had received and used up some time ago, but these strange details are only cohesive threads woven into the tapestry pulled around him while he, in reality, sleeps.
The ribbon of smoke lifting off the end of burning cigarette seems random enough to trick him. ]