Re: Basement: table by the stage
The white fog of his hand twisted toward the decanter, a gentleman's gesture of apology, however small. "Forgive me," the voice was low, regretful, "But please do help yourself." The byplay with the cherry, that was, he supposed how things ought to be. Things ought differently here. The chimera of smoke shimmered briefly for a minute, like smog hanging over water and re-composed itself as the man straightened, his ankles crossed neatly in front of him.
"You look as though you might be seeking company." It lacked the suggestion of an invitation, the man with his ankles crossed and his suit with lapels cut as though they were old rather than new did not appear to know the requirement of companionship, for enjoyment.
"Different," he appeared to consider it, the burnishing of burning paper a glint in his eyes. "Yes. I think I'm different. Out there." A dismissive, elegant hand beyond the sticky condensation of the walls. Smoke he was presently. There was something about that.