Re: Second Class; Theater smoking room
The pleasure the horned man took in his cigarette was entirely obvious; he drew in a long breath and made a small sound and the celluloid gentleman coughed politely and turned his head aside as if to allow room for privacy. He had watched, fascinated, with only the tiniest recalibration of his self during the process of cigarette catching once again without mechanism nor lighter and he snapped shut the cigarette case and tucked it away once again into the breast pocket of the suit. The lining flashed as he did so, a ripple of expensive-looking silk in a dark soft color that could (had he been technicolor rather than prior) have been close to violet. It was a nothing color just then but the man fastened the button of his jacket fastidiously as if he were more than a projection on a silver screen.
It was a pleasant smile, for all the problems that the horned man presently had, and the movie star smiled back, the smile snapped in newspapers and printed in the gossip magazines. He looked directly at him, despite the ripple of teeth just beyond the edge of the horned man’s lip and the movie star’s gaze was as untroubled as if there had been no reason for concern at all. The weight of the man’s hand was warm, and the wool of the suit creased beneath his palm, expensive wrinkles in the fabric. The strident comb-markings in his dark hair were obvious as the movie star lowered his head to look at where the hand lay. “Yes,” he said, flummoxed by the question - but the monochrome star had no idea that he flickered at all. He did not look at himself, after all. Did the horned man think himself a ghost?
“You’re quite solid,” he reassured him, and put his cigarette to his lips, “Yes, I can feel your hand.” He wanted to ask if the man was cold, but thought perhaps that might be impolite.