Second Class; Theater smoking room
He had not booked passage on a ship. He had not even intended upon a celebration for he was certain that the music, faint but haunting, indicated that it was such. The man from the flickering celluloid, the gray glimmers of the silent screen stood with the heels of his shiny leather shoes neatly together and the comb grooves in the sharp part of his hair knew that he was not meant to be here at all, and the expanse of polished floors and the rich opulence of this floating ode to history ought be unsettling - but he did not appear to be unsettled. He pushed his hands into the pockets of the tailored suit, and he strolled, the slick leather of his soles slapped and he walked past the elevator cage with a twitch of his head to look at the bars, at the implication of being caught behind them and down the stairs with the neat little flick of steps that were a man made to dance.
Down. Down past the baths and the ripple of water and the glitter of voices; the man with his pocket-square neatly folded and the monochrome shirt did not look over at where the champagne likely flowed and the voices were meant to hold the clipped intonation of the wealthy, of first-class ticket holders who paid in advance for their berths. He turned sharply, click of the heels, where the hubbub was, where the cigar smoke wreathed over his head and turned the air faintly blue. The movie star breathed in the warm fug and he strolled toward an empty chair in the smoking room, withdrawing a silver, engraved cigarette case from his breast pocket and leaned across the nearest shoulder.
“Excuse me,” polite, with all the finesse of a bygone golden era played out in lights, “Do you have a light?” He held out his cigarette in the pinch of his fingers.