theater; aisle seat
He's smoking inside the theater. It's not a cigarette, but a cheroot, and the smoke he exhales is heavy with sweet tobacco, clotting in the air into small, viscous clouds.
He's wearing a trenchcoat, which seems to suit him. It's a little dirty and the lapels are rumpled, and so is the clothing beneath, an old suit in a timeless style that is, still, antique. He has a young face, too young to be dressed like an old man and smoking by himself.
By now, he's come to expect something to happen at Halloween, and his worry about what might happen this time faded with his first exhale of smoke from the little cigar that appeared in his fingers. He's watching the images on screen with vague interest, and he is trying to stay in his seat. It's better for him to stay there, even if he doesn't want to. He may be old, but for him, with his young face and his tired eyes, the will never outlives the strength of the body. It merely bides, and waits for him to give it an opportunity. But he's left all that behind him, or so he says.
The little cigar fades, centimeter by centimeter, and he tips his head back and to the left to look at the first person to approach from behind. He ashes the cheroot onto the sticky theater floor. Onscreen, there is a flash of an arcing body, sweat beading out on a chest too thin to be so twisted.
"Happy Halloween," he says, congratulating them both. Here they all are for another ride on the freaky merry go round, and without the fear of it all he can do is feel resign.