Re: Basement: table by the stage
If the basement seemed an odd place to roam if one sought nothing, the smoke-curl did not say so. He did not speak, the comportment of features elided gracefully on a draft into a look that caught the details of the twined-up hair and the bright lips, but it dispersed into the plain gray-nothing of a curl hanging loosely in the air. The basement was full of something but it was a particular something indeed.
"Ah," the man made of smoke turned his head and his ear dissolved into something insubstantially foggy. He was not concentrating precisely then and he did not appear to notice. "Aren't we all different out there?" His smile was a prescient curlicue of smudged soot that managed to comport itself on the fug of the nearby candles and drift just close enough to be so.
"If you do not know what it is you look for," the suit slid away from the eye, a soft haze against the backdrop of a small gold chair leaned toward the audience, "Then I wish you well. You may keep the wine," he said as if an afterthought. And then he stretched, rangy legs a suggestion in the wisp of stuff that wafted slowly toward the edges of the room as the smoke-curl sought something more substantial, the wavering, grayish signal of a smoker in the corner.