Re: Second Class; Theater smoking room
The cigarette case snapped with a suddenness as the cigarette jumped with copper-bright flare of flame. The celluloid center-piece had startled, but he thumbed the catch open once again with a deftness that said it had been handled often. It was worn silver, and the initials were etched deep, scuffed and faded with use. He held it out, as if men who wore the world’s nightmares curled high from their heads were usual companions in places men came to gather, with a dapper politeness.
“That’s a neat trick,” he remarked, and he lifted his own cigarette to his lips with the very tips of fingers with neatly trimmed nails. There was no evident fear from the man in shades of gray. It looked as if he’d caught the man off-guard and when you looked like that, whether for a night or a lifetime it was best not to be startled. Poor fellow. As the movie star gazed intently at where the flame had risen, it was with the scuttering flicker of celluloid skipping, traction lost briefly on old projectors.
“Would you like one?” He thought it best not to comment on the shirt. Someone might have a spare, somewhere. It wouldn’t be polite to say anything, particularly if the gentleman with the long, coiled headgear couldn’t help his informality.