loki laufeyson (toberuled) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2012-12-14 22:25:00 |
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Entry tags: | eames, loki |
Who: Joseph and Louis
What: Joseph comes over for a visit, and, to no one's surprise, ends up fleeing for time number three.
Where: Louis' apartment.
When: Recently.
Warnings/Rating: None.
Louis had, essentially, no idea what to do to prepare for Joseph’s visit.
Should he order food? Or would that be somehow awkward and intimate? Should he clean, or leave things as they were? Would having a dirty apartment layer a casual tone over the whole thing? Should he buy better alcohol, or not bother? Should he answer the door right away, or let Joseph knock a few times?
Such worries plagued him through work that afternoon, as he sat in his small office, paging through pictures of a young professional whose activities he had been hired to investigate. No suspected infidelity this time - it was the rather more interesting prospect of the woman’s suspected embezzlement in partnership with her husband, who worked at a rival company. It was an interesting enough case, despite the fact that most of the actual investigating had the air of busywork. Most of his time had been spent going through old files forwarded by the company, and keeping an eye on her spending habits, gathering enough evidence to merit her employer going through the steamroller of the press after one of their highest level executives was charged with stealing from under their noses for two years.
The case should have occupied his full attention, but it didn’t. Every few pictures, Louis’ mind would start to wander. Why was he even worrying about this, anyway? Joseph had run off on him twice now. Extenuating circumstances or not, perhaps it was best to avoid the sting of being stood up by hardly preparing at all.
And there was Sam, of course. Between Sam and Joseph, focusing was a complete wash. How could she have been so desperate, so down, so strung out, without any of them knowing? It seemed impossible. He’d just seen her at Thanksgiving. It wasn’t as if he’d never seen junkies before, and he’d been so oblivious that he didn’t even know what Sam had been using. ‘Something from a needle,’ Neil had said. That could be practically anything. They might arrest her, or simply send her to rehab. He wouldn’t know until he heard from her doctor. Soon, hopefully. It had been disheartening to hear, on top of everything, that she didn’t want to see anyone, but he could understand why. Now the thing would be to do all he could for her.
By the middle of the afternoon, Louis gave up on getting anything productive done in the way of work, and headed home early. And after all his worrying, the only thing Louis actually did before Joseph arrived at his door was buy beer, a decent microbrew that Louis himself liked, which he assumed couldn’t be all that offensive.
Louis went home, changed into a clean shirt, and settled in with a book to kill time. Most of his evenings lately had been spent quietly, with food and booze and a book, or a bad movie on television. He’d lived alone for a very long time, and one learned how to occupy themselves quietly after long enough. Eventually, Louis gave up on the book, on Emily and the cruel Signor Montoni. He set it aside and turned on a cable channel that showed mostly very bad old movies. He let a black and white film flicker across the screen, scanned through the photos on his phone, and picked up the journal more than once, checking to be sure Sam’s doctor had yet to contact him. No, no sign of him. And no sign of Joseph letting him know it was much too gay to come to another man’s apartment without a female escort. So that was good.
Joseph hadn't considered canceling. Despite Louis' attempt to kiss him at the bar, he wasn't worried. Trystan had tried something similar in the car, and Joseph had put an end to it, and that had been that. Still saw Trystan regularly. Never worried that Trystan was going to try crawling on him again. Same with Louis. Wasn't worried. Was even less worried now that Casey was here, solid, real, accepted as a presence from the past that intersected with Louis. Not worried.
Joseph left the station early enough to go home and shower, walk Salt, and smoke a cigarette while sitting on the foldout metal stairs that swung out from beneath the RV's door. Once the white stub had burned down to his fingertips, he hailed a cab and gave the driver directions to Louis.' Could have taken the patrol car, but didn't know if Louis would have booze, and Joseph never drove after drinking.
After paying the fare, Joseph let himself into Louis' apartment building, and he knocked on Louis' door. He was dressed in jeans and a grey shirt, long sleeved and snug. His black boots were practical, and he had his gun on his hip, along with his badge, beneath the seaman's coat he wore in navy blue wool. His jaw was stubbled, and his hair was damp, which made the silver at the temples more pronounced. He smelled like the salt that clung to the collar of the coat, and that had rusted the brass buttons smooth.
The knock at the door startled Louis into dropping the journal. Sam's doctor had gotten in contact with him again, and trying to work out what would happen to her next had occupied his complete attention. He set it aside for the moment, laying it down on the coffee table in the living room, and sprung up to answer the door. He forgot entirely about being appropriately hesitant, as well. The door swung open before Joseph even really had a chance to wonder whether Louis had heard.
Louis had dressed with practiced care in the sort of clothes he wore every day, a blue button down with the cuffs open and the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and a pair of jeans that he sometimes wore inside the house, but rarely outside it. Normally he would have changed into something more comfortable by now, but he was aiming for practical and unassuming, not slovenly. "Evening," he said, endeavoring with all his power not to stare, despite the fact that Joseph smelled sharply of salt and musk in the old seaman's coat that gave him a sort of nobility of silhouette that was completely new and totally fascinating. He let Joseph in, then shut the door behind him. "Do you want something to drink?" The nameless black and white movie was still playing on the TV on mute, and he reached for the remote to turn it off.
Joseph had expectations. He always had expectations about where people lived. Said something, furniture and walls. Even people who had decorators were saying something by having decorators. Didn't call them designers. Weren't designing anything. But, expectations. Had expected pale colors, light woods, clean lines. Hadn't expected a dark couch and whimsical lighting. He walked in, and he looked around the living room a few seconds longer, and then he turned to the man at the door. "Whatever you're having."
It was almost a full sentence, but Joseph was distracted by a strange taxi light on a table. Maybe he'd misjudged Louis. Never did that. Something learned on the job, reading people. Eames, in the back of his mind, groaned, and Joseph tuned him out. Thought he knew everything about people, Eames.
Joseph undid the big, tarnished button on the coat, and he peeled the wool back and looked around, trying to figure out where to drop the thing. In the end, he decided on the arm of the sofa. Couch would smell like salt for days, but Joseph didn't consider that. Liked the smell, was so used to it he only noticed when it was gone.
"Nice place," Joseph finally added. Compliments. People liked compliments.
Louis walked over to the kitchen, separated only from the living room by the presence of appliances and a heavy kitchen table with a few chairs. Not too many, though. They were really only there to accept clients who insisted on meeting with him at home, or to accommodate family. "I was going to have brandy," Louis said, with a faint smile. Somehow, he didn't imagine that would be quite Joseph's drink of choice. "But let's have beer instead."
He walked back toward Joseph with a beer for each of them and a sensible steel bottle opener. The compliment was actually a surprise. Louis had assumed Joseph wouldn't look twice at the room around them. Maybe he was doing it to keep busy, and if he was, Louis could definitely understand the feeling. He didn't mind the salty coat on his sofa - in fact, there was a good chance that, if the scent of salt did linger, he would, privately, find it pleasant. "Thank you," he said. He popped the cap off Joseph's bottle, and handed it to him. "I...didn't want to let anyone do it for me, when I moved here. So I did it all myself."
The apartment was big enough to vaguely imply wealth without screaming it. The furnishings all had an air of the comfort and warmth, but they were organized. The taste that had furnished the place was of a simple kind, the sort that came naturally alongside a comfort with having good things. His job paid well enough to cover his rent and expenses, and the nest egg of his inheritance took care of the rest, though he hadn’t accepted money from his parents for years. He was aware of his privilege, but uninterested in wearing it on his sleeve, and most of the things in the apartment had come from a thrift shop, flea market, or antique mall. Considering what he knew now about his origins, being ostentatious with his wealth felt more shameful than anything. The things his parents had done to keep rotating in their social circles made him blanch as he grew old enough to understand how much status meant to them. If you had to surround yourself with things, they ought to be things you liked, rather than things that broadcast how much they cost.
Louis moved back toward the kitchen table, a slab of rough mahogany with a scarred surface, and perched on one of the refurbished chairs. Sitting next to Joseph on the couch would likely be a little too intimate. It wasn't just about running him off, anymore. He really was starting to like him. The idea of making him uncomfortable just didn't sit well. "How long was your shift?"
"Brandy's fine," Joseph said, even as he followed Louis back to the kitchen. Couldn't remember the last time he'd had any, but was fine. But then Louis was back with the beers and the opener, and Joseph took the opener from him and popped his own beer, before handing it back. He took a long swig, noticing the surprised look on Joseph's features. Wasn't good at compliments, and Louis obviously wasn't good at receiving them.
Joseph lifted the beer to his lips again, and then he used the bottle to point at the taxi sign. "Volunteered? Or do I have to arrest you?" he teased.
Origins were something Joseph didn't give much thought to. He had them. Everyone did. Was more concerned with what people did with themselves, than where they came from. Hadn't learned that on a boat, but the sea took rich and poor alike. Didn't matter to her. And cops saw criminals in every social circle. Crime didn't discriminate, even if law and justice did.
Joseph stood and dragged his rough-marred fingertips over the mahogany wood of the table, watching as Louis perched on one of the chairs. Not the couch. Alright. Table worked. He took Louis' relocation as a sign to do the same, and he pulled out a chair and sat down too. He set the beer on the table, let the condensation sweat on the wood. Didn't need coasters for glasses or bottles in the RV. "Sixteen hours," Joseph explained. "Wasn't a long one." He paused. "Like what you do, Louis?" he asked, genuinely curious.
Louis felt a little guilty for cutting Joseph off, but oh well - he was likely just being polite anyway. Joseph was right in his guess that Louis was about as skilled at receiving compliments as he was at giving them, but maybe that was for the best, and it would prompt them both to avoid it.
Every move Louis made around Joseph was second guessed. It was hard not to feel a little gun shy around him. He'd managed to run him off twice now, once with a really unfortunately attempted kiss, and the other with his brother. This time, who knew what it might be? The decor? Saying the wrong thing? The comment about the taxi sign got his shoulders to loosen a little, though. "Volunteered," he said, with a small smile. "I bought it at a flea market. If it was taken off against the owner's wishes, I'm blissfully unaware."
He didn't mean to drag Joseph away from the couch, but alright, that was just another misstep. He was going to need to just expect they would happen. He didn't comment on the lack of a coaster. He was organized, and neat, but not so fussy as to slide a coaster under Joseph's beer. He didn't bother to get one for himself, either. "No," he agreed, to the length of the shift. He remembered those. They were one of the things he didn't miss about police work. "I do," he said. In the warm light of the apartment, his slate blue eyes were a little darker than they would otherwise have been. "I like being able to work on my own, choose what cases I devote my time to and which I don't." He rested the front edge of the bottle on the wood. Thinking about his answer had managed to distract him enough that he forgot to be quite so tightly wound. "I do feel sometimes as if the work I do isn't enough, and I know I was able to do more when I was a detective sergeant. To do more, for the people that needed it." He paused, and tapped the bottle on the table, looking up. "But that's not how things worked out." He lifted the bottle to drink. “How long have you been on the force?”
Joseph didn't immediately say anything about the taxi sign. He hummed to himself thoughtfully, but that was all.
"Cases," Joseph commented, once he was seated. No secret PIs and cops didn't get along, but Joseph wasn't a detective. Didn't have cases, didn't feel territorial like a detective would. "Since Evan's accident," was the response about how long he'd been on the force; no point lying. "Well, Academy then. Was drifting before. Came on the scene. Couldn't save the dead girl. Saved the boy." Now it was Joseph's turn to wonder if Louis was going to show him the door.
Joseph stood, and he walked back over to that taxi sign, leaving his beer on the table.
"Accessory after the fact," Joseph said with all seriousness. He patted at his pockets, as if he was looking for a pad and a pen. "Paper? Pen? Must document the serial number," he said of the taxi sign, and it was anyone's guess as to whether or not he was joking.
Louis' expression changed at the mention of Evan. It had been long enough now that Louis could manage to forget Evan for stretches of time. It would last until something reminded Louis of him, or until he was laying awake at night in an empty bed, his stomach churning with anxiety over the fact that he still hadn't gone to see him in prison, or kept up to date on his trial. That still nagged at him. He kept staying away, and he kept feeling guilty for it.
Avoiding the subject forever, though, would get him nowhere, with Joseph especially. He remembered most of the conversation they'd had when Louis was messily drunk in his trailer, but he had forgotten until now that Joseph said Evan's first accident had been what prompted him to join the force. Far from showing him to the door, he listened, some of that pain still open on his face, thinking about the ifs that might have kept the second accident from happening. If he'd been better. If he hadn't been a coward.
He didn't even really get a chance to respond before Joseph stood up and went back to the taxi sign. Louis got up as well, lips parted in surprise. It was obvious what Joseph was doing, and why he was doing it, and it was just funny to see the man exhibit something akin to a sense of humor. The chance to forget, to not think about Evan, was appreciated, and it showed in his small smile. "On the coffee table," he offered, walking toward him, beer still held lightly in his fingers. "Will I need to be formally questioned?"
Joseph knew the comment about Evan had struck a nerve. Knew, but wouldn't have taken it back. That accident made him who he was. Couldn't not talk about it, not if he was going to get beyond this with Louis. Needed to be said. Wasn't ashamed to have said it. Was sorry that Evan had put Louis through the things he had, but couldn't change that either. Was what it was.
When Joseph stood up, he wasn't sure how Louis would react to the teasing about the taxi sign, but the response was a good one. He made a sound that was guttural agreement, a yes without words. "Must get to the bottom of this. Took an oath when I joined the force." The corner of his mouth tipped up in a smile very reminiscent to the kind of smiles Eames smiled. Saltier, more lined, deeper in the leathery skin, but an almost-smirk all the same.
Joseph picked up the pen and paper from the coffee table, and he began to write, but he stopped himself after just an L. "Can't believe you actually have pen and paper," he joked.
Louis liked that smile. He did indeed, and his own widened. It felt a little like winning something, seeing Joseph smile. "Why? Do I seem too tech savvy?" He gestured to the apartment. "I like some things old-fashioned." Was that flirtation? Hard to say. He was certainly too worried about scaring him out the door to be overt, and it could just as easily have been simply rolling along with the flow of conversation. It was true, too. He did like things older than himself. "I take your oath seriously," Louis responded, with appropriate gravity. "I know what such things mean, even if I'm no longer bound by one myself." He gestured with the bottle of beer. "Please. Ask away."
"Can't be old fashioned these days," Joseph replied, and there was truth in the teasing. "Technology will chase you down," he explained. "Used to write reports. Type them now. Used to turn a knob to change channels. Push buttons now. Always connected with a phone. No simple life anymore." He mourned the loss. Missed the water, where nothing electronic existed and no cellphones kept him connected. "Hard life to get used to," he admitted. He laughed a moment later. "Can't imagine you as a cop. Bad life choice," he told the other man, and he put the paper and pen down on the table, in favor of picking up his beer again. "Can overlook crime this once."
Joseph lamenting on the wave of technology somehow fit him very well. Louis had the sense that he'd been unplugged for a long time, and his comparison of then and now confirmed it. It was sort of charming, really. The laugh at his former vocation, however, did catch him by surprise. "Really?" he asked. He wondered what Joseph must think of him. Quitting, coming to America to find his biological family. If anyone had asked him a few years ago whether dropping everything and leaving Britain was in the cards, he would have said no. But things changed - people changed. Didn't they? "Perhaps I wasn't very good at it," he said. There was something fleeting in his smile, melancholy. "But I did care about it. I wanted to make an impact on people's lives. I wanted to matter to them." He took a swallow of the beer. He wasn't so nervous anymore, which was a relief, but thinking about the way things had gone never really did him much good. “I appreciate you turning a blind eye,” Louis said. “I don’t know what I’d do if my taxi light was confiscated.”
Joseph mumbled a yes, a sound, not words. "Don't feel like a cop," he said, pointing at Louis. Abstract, but true. Years with cops, and they were all the same. Tough, not insecure on the outside, not emotional, not delicate. Men like him. Men like O'Hara. Men like Baird and his lack of smiles. Serious men, or men wanting power, or rough things. Being a cop, it was a lot like being buffeted by the sea; took the soft right out of a person. Louis had too much soft. Maybe cops in England were different. But here soft was bad news, and those cops joined the force and left just as quick. "Imagine you in a classroom. Somewhere quiet." Louis was nothing like the rambunctious Casey. Casey could have been a cop, if he wasn't so flamboyant. Joseph smiled slightly at the memory. He finished off his beer, and he twisted the empty between his fingers. "Might still need to confiscate. Guilt might eat at me. Poor cabbie out there with no light."
"I can handle myself," Louis said, a little stiffly. "I was promoted in record time. Maybe they were looking for a different approach." It was certainly possible. And he had worked harder and stayed out longer than anyone else to prove a point after he’d been roundly mocked during training. He didn't back down, and did nothing but work. Right personality traits or not - hard or not - that desire to prove his worth seemed to have worked to good effect. It was hard not to feel as if Joseph's assessment of his personality was also a quiet dressing down of whether he'd actually been in the force at all. Honestly, he had been a fine cop, but a much better detective. That work had suited him better, and perhaps that, in the end, was the simple reason behind his promotion. "I'd be a terrible teacher, anyway," Louis said, to his beer bottle. There was no doubt about that. He didn't have the patience for it, or the self-possession. He would have worried the students would try to walk on him, and hastily shore up the gap with an excess of hardness and harshness to keep students in line. No, that would have been very bad.
"I'll confiscate that," Louis said at last, taking the empty from Joseph and resolving to drop the thought. He was being ridiculous. Joseph was just making an observation, not a value judgement. It was all just a sore subject, still. Here he was in Las Vegas, working as a private detective because it was a skill set he already had, and he might work that job until he died. Didn't he want anything else? Wasn't there anything out there that he might truly love to do? He'd chosen police work because serving the public good and being somehow important had seemed like noble goals, because an opportunity to at least pretend at confidence from behind the authority of a badge had been immensely appealing. But had it been for a love of the work itself? Not really. Not really at all.
"Never said you couldn't," Joseph said, realizing he'd made Louis feel something he hadn't intended to. "Detective. Could be a detective," he agreed easily. Detectives here will still hardened men and women, but not as hard as beat cops, and Joseph perceived England as a quieter, better place. Hoped so, anyway. Some place had to be better than here. "Look like a teacher," Joseph added when Louis said he wouldn't be a good one. His mind was already moving to why, though. Maybe Louis was right. Kids could be tough. Was one of the reason Louis had trouble imagining Louis on a beat with a mouthy teenager making fun of him.
Joseph gave up the beer with no argument. "Overstayed my welcome?" he asked. He almost didn't raise his voice at the end of the statement. Almost made it a true statement, one followed by a walk toward the door. Didn't think that would help things though, so a question mark it was.
Louis was already moving back toward the kitchen as Joseph spoke, and he didn’t pause when Joseph pointed out he looked like a teacher. Was that something unsure he heard in his voice? “I suppose I do,” he said. He suddenly felt badly for being rude with him a moment before. He hadn’t meant anything by it, clearly.
Louis set the empty by the sink, finished his own beer, and then plucked two more from the refrigerator. “I was just getting you another one,” he said as he approached him again, with a small smile. He knew what he heard in Joseph’s voice. He knew the feeling that you’d stepped wrong somewhere, that maybe it was best to just leave. He handed the beers to him, and the bottle opener, like a peace offering. “Easily discouraged?” he asked, smiling just a little. No, he hadn’t forgotten when that question was turned on him.
Joseph laughed when Louis returned to him with the beer, and he shook his head before reaching a hand out for it, fingers inadvertently brushing against the other man's. He took a long swig, and then he set it down on an endtable. "Just know when it's time," he said. He was finally getting the picture. Finally understanding that this was more than beers. It didn't disgust him. Didn't turn his stomach. Didn't even scare him as much as it should. And that was enough to make him take the remaining two strides to the door. "Better go. Shift in the morning. Thanks for the beer. Don't steal signs." All run together, like a boy scared of his date at prom.
What? Where was he going?
Louis was startled enough that he didn't move immediately. Joseph had laughed, hadn't he? And that light touch had been quite nice. Louis thought things had been going alright, and now he was halfway out the door. He couldn't have scared him off again, but he had. Somehow, he had.
It was uncharacteristically bold of Louis to follow after, but he did, setting his beer down on the kitchen table as he walked behind Joseph to the door. When it came down to it, Louis was simply getting tired of this. He was tired of Joseph running off, tired of feeling like he'd failed. He'd been subconsciously comparing himself with Casey ever since Joseph told him that they'd seen each other. What was it about Casey that had made the idea of being with another man tolerable for Joseph? What was Louis missing? He wasn't as attractive as Casey, of course, and he didn't have his confidence. Still, Joseph kept agreeing to see him. He was starting to genuinely feel jerked around. He would be fine with being nothing more than friends with Joseph, but there wasn't much chance of that happening either, if Joseph kept running every time they talked.
"I think that's a new record," Louis said, from behind him. He didn't even pretend not to know what this was about. There was no point. "That's three times, now, I've managed to make you run for the hills. Would you at least tell me why this time, before you go sprinting out the door?" He canted his head, mouth set into a thin line, brows drawn down. "Look at me."
Joseph stopped. His hand was on the doorknob, and the hallway beckoned like a beacon on the water. "Not you. It's me." Even Joseph realized shitty that sounded, because he groaned, and he rubbed a hand over his face and turned to look at the younger man. "Nothing you did. Can't do this," he explained, motioning at Louis, motioning at the apartment. Knew he was being disjointed. Knew it wasn't actually helping Louis to understand, but he couldn't explain how closeted he was. Didn't know how to explain how things had changed in his head after Casey. He sighed. "Tried to hire a hooker once," he said, because he felt like he owed the man some explanation. "Paid. Ran." There, that should help. Wasn't Louis. Was everyone. Was him.
Joseph turned the knob, and he shoved the door open.
Louis reached out, and caught Joseph by the elbow, lightly. "Wait just a moment," he said. He couldn't just let him run off without a last word, not again. "You realize there's no one else here, don't you?" Eames had told him that the problem was being in public when he’d tried to kiss Joseph before. There was no one here to see them, though, and it wasn't as if Louis had hit on him, or touched him, or even intimated anything, really. If just being around Louis was going to scare Joseph off, there was hardly any point in trying. That he’d gone so far as to run from a prostitute wasn’t comforting - Louis hardly wore sex on his sleeve in such a way, but Joseph was trying to escape from him too.
Louis hesitated, then dropped his hand. "I'm not contagious," he said, and attempted not to sound wounded. No. He had no reason to feel ashamed. "You can talk to me."
It was the hand on his elbow that made Joseph still. Same hand that made him jerk back. "Have to go," he insisted. "Want something from me I can't give, Louis," he said, and he was sorry about that. Sorry for himself. Sorry for Louis. But he couldn't. Didn't even know if he wanted to. The party at the hotel had put all kinds of idea in his head, but who was to say they were really his. He'd been happy with a wife. He could only remember shame with Casey. Couldn't put that into words. Couldn't change Louis' expectations.
"Not you," he reminded the blond, a shrug of his broad shoulders, and then a jerk of his thumb toward the door. "Better go." He knew Joseph wouldn't chase. Wished he could stay there and see this through, but his skin itched and he needed to get away. "My fault. Led you on. My doing," he added, not blaming Eames at all, not blaming Louis either. He couldn't even pretend that he and Louis could be friends. Felt more than friends, just couldn't leave the past in the past.
That was the case, wasn't it? Louis always wanted something from someone that they were unable to do, or unable to give. It didn't matter how many times Joseph said it wasn't about him.
But it made him angry, as well. What was he worth, really? Not getting to know, clearly. Being his friend wasn't worth chancing the terrifying idea that they might end up having sex, at some point, against Joseph's better judgement.
And that thought, that thought made Louis angry. He took a step back. He had promised himself after Evan that he wasn't going to keep opening himself up to rejection like this. Why had he even bothered to do this again? "Go on then." He could feel his pulse, heavy in his throat, with the flush of anger. No, he wouldn’t feel sorry for Joseph. Whatever Louis was worth, well, Joseph wasn’t worth feeling sorry for. “Shouldn’t stay too long, or you might fuck me by mistake.”
Joseph gave Louis a long look, one that said he understood his anger, and then he stepped out the door and made his way down the hall, hands shoved into his pockets and shoulders rolled forward, a walking slouch. He missed the water. Might go see it for Christmas. But he knew he wouldn't. Just a dream, like all the others he wouldn't see through. Same as always. Nothing changed.
Louis shut the door behind Joseph firmly, just short of slamming it. He walked across the room, sharply picked up the half-drunk beers, and walked into the kitchen, where he upended them into the sink. When all the beer had foamed down the drain, he planted the empties heavily on the counter.
He began turning the lights off as he moved back through the apartment, darkening it light by light, and shutting off the television. Journal in hand, he went up the stairs to his room.
Well, it wasn't as if he didn't know how to while away an evening alone.