Re: Second Class; Theater - Smoking Room
The hair beneath the hat was sweat-matted, it was three days without a comb and the kind of long distance traveled with nothing but the sky overhead for a roof. Once the hat was back on his head the gunslinger settled a little, the vertebrae of his spine flexing as his shoulders braced against the soft mass of the cushion. It was comfortable, like a price tag left out on display and he thought once more of the glasses, the one he had had in his hands with the kind of heft to them that made them good for throwing and how much things like that cost when they broke.
He didn’t tip her off but he grunted a little as her weight resettled, little slip of things didn’t weigh nothing but smoke even if they looked it, and his knees jigged and settled like he was a man not used to sitting long on something soft. “You’re not in a mask,” he said. He didn’t soften his voice and he didn’t lower it, he didn’t see any reason to go whispering. No one in the room cared a bit what went on at the bench at the back. “You want to hide, there’s more than ears and a tail needed for that.”