Re: theater; aisle seat
The young old man smiles faintly. She thinks she hasn't set terms, but she's made an offering, and there are rules as old as the sun about offerings and what they mean, what they create, summon, and stir into being. She's pleased by his vulgarity and he knows she dreams herself miles above all earthly concerns. He can't seem to get any going himself, tonight.
He draws in a breath of smoke and breaths it out, no pretty shapes, just a rough cloud that obscures the brief but vividly graphic images onscreen. This close, the smoke rolling from his mouth smells like wet tobacco leaves, clean scratchings of ivory, and copper. "Neither," he says. He isn't, not usually. Tonight is different, though, and everything seems to move almost too fast to track. He's making quick decisions where he would usually hem and haw, and following through on his choices without asking permission or thinking on guilt.
He leans in close to her, across the armrest that separates them. He takes the cherut from his mouth with his left hand, and reaches up to gently tug the headband across her forehead down over her eyes. "Hold still," he says. "And don't peek."