Re: Basement: table by the stage
The clot of smoke roiled in his seat and reformed, this time with the cant of his head tipped just so to look more closely at his would-be companion. A face drew itself out of the nothing, smudgy gray and gentle amusement in the suggestion of a mouth that gently trailed from a nearby cigarette-end. A roll of the wrist, the amorphous drawing-together of enough substance to make an elegant hand, a sweeping gesture that left trails on warm and yeasty air. He had long fingers, the smoke-curl. A patrician sort, or a piano player.
The glint of burned down coals, the amber glow of cigars lingered a little on the cherry she brought with her. It was deliberate, a tease, in a room dedicated to peeling away such things and leaving them so exposed. The smoke glimmered very gently. It trailed and whorled and the man in the matte-shabby suit of smoke was once more seated with his leg comfortably across his knee and his foot tipped toward the stage.
"Does the place exist often?" His voice had the timbre of warmed-through whiskey and smoky woods, the dusty, throaty catch of burning paper spitting sparks. "To come to?" The head tipped, the shoulder blurred into tobacco-sweet nothing. The man considered it.