Re: Bus stop: Misha & Lou
Misha, he hadn't never been good at seeing the punch coming 'fore it did. It would be real nice to say he'd defiantly gone out, dressed how he dressed, as a way to tell the world it could go on and screw itself 'bout hating. But that wasn't why Misha did what he did. Misha, he just felt right wearing what he wore on any given day, and he never did think of altering to avoid a fist. He wasn't making no statement in all that pink, not deliberate. This wasn't like carrying a sign to make a point. It was just who he was, and his life had been painted all sorts of shades of pain on account. Young, he hadn't never been the type to throw a punch. After Heaven, he'd reckoned he couldn't, believing their lies how he did. Now, he hadn't encountered any flying fists since finding out his daddy was the King of Hell. But one thing was real sure, and that was the boy that sat himself on the edge of that bus stop bench, he was feeling mighty jaded with folks.
It wasn't all David Park's doing, but that was the straw that broke the camel's proverbial back, and despite a glance over the woman sitting there, an instinctive look to see how she glowed and what she was, he wasn't keen on doing anything Heaven would go approving of. Folks, they were a cause lost, and Misha was doing plenty of rethinking of his notions 'bout humans and their beauty.
"Why would I be carrying it otherwise?" he asked of the fiddle and whether he played, but he did notice the woman wasn't looking, and he noticed the shifting in the light 'round her, the wavering that folks got when they were distracted. He didn't try to follow her gaze, but he reckoned he could follow her thinking clear 'nough. "A woman and a boy dressed like me, it ain't a wise combination out here at night." It was worth mentioning that he didn't sound worried a lick. If anything, he sounded like he welcomed something to blow off steam some, as if dancing for 12-straight hours and all them aching muscles hadn't managed it none.