Re: Second Class; Theater - Smoking Room
The gunslinger didn’t know feminine disappointment if it bit him. There wasn’t much to encounter where he came from and he didn’t know anything that was small and hidden and soft, even feelings. She tipped herself back, a tipsy coil of tail and legs and loose hair, back into that nest of cushions and he stretched out the leg she’d been balanced on, the heel of his boot tipped back against the carpet until he looked at the scuffed toe of his boot. She laughed, and he looked over beneath the brim of his hat, and he smiled like a man catching the end of a joke without the punchline. He looked around for that empty glass and he thought of the waste of the good liquor that was the sodden fabric of the cushion, nothing but a note in the air now.
“I don’t go hiding much,” but he was heaving up to his feet, who knew when they’d shut the bar up? That wallet wasn’t showing up anytime soon and there were plenty of thirsty people in a room given over to drinking and smoking like Soddom and Gomorrah were having an exodus. “You want to hide, you’d better find yourself something better than being on out in the open like this.” His smile was weather-worn and he pulled the scarf back up over his nose with the pinch of his fingers, and he palmed the empty glass from the floor at her feet. “I’m going to get myself another drink.” The hat tipped, solemn as church, and his eyes crinkled beneath its shade.