Re: Basement: Edge of the action
Back home, in the life that passed for regular, it wasn't as easy to get along as he would have hoped. People like him, there just wasn't a good place in the world for them. They were what people settled for when what they wanted was unavailable, and he wasn't the sort to handle being the one who's settled upon easily. It was why he continued on as he did. Want him for who he was and what he had to offer, not because the soup de jour was unavailable.
He liked the way she pulled on that cigarette, the way her lips wrapped around the dark filter. "We'll see if I was a good teacher, then," he responded, glancing down a moment later to where she gestured with the cigarette. "I'm not sure. Probably has meaning, but I haven't thought on it. They're new. Nothing I've had in the past." Poetry, that's what was written on him, nothing recognizable by regular standards, but the words were put together well, a darkness in them that spoke of sadness, of things lost, of things desired. It was etched into him, old ink, old words.
As her gaze shifted towards the stage, he glanced back towards it with her, watching as yet another person was dragged away to the hoots and hollers of the gallery. I don't think so. I'm enjoying this just fine, and besides..." He turned back towards her, eyes going to her lips, and then matching her gaze once more. "You're the boss. Not my place to be disappointed by what you do and don't do, is it?" His grin said that he didn't mind that place at all, and if it made her happy, brought that grin to her lips, then he'd be happy to do what she asked.