Re: Second Class; Theater smoking room
The devil blinked. The movie star really was perfect, wasn't he? Prepared for every eventuality, outfitted for every nightmarish set of circumstances, right down to the tragic loss of a handkerchief. He was as sheepish as a devil could be despite all his demonic accouterments, and he took the handkerchief back and tucked it into the pocket of his ragged jeans.
He was usually such a charmer. It came so easily, blunt but smooth as hammered steel, reflective and not the least bit soft. The veneer had come off in the polishing, and the base metal underneath showed through, despite the horns and the eyes like Johnny Cash might sing about. He found himself regretting that those easy words were out of his reach, that he couldn't pluck a perfect pickup or deflection from the air to save face, but it was gone as quickly as smoke through his fingers. It was all tied up in the fear, of course, and the fear was gone. He didn't fear the movie star. But he would have liked to be impressive, somehow, to be glamorous, to be sleek.
He was not those things. He was a cherubic herald of the dawn of destruction, and he was apologetic about the whole thing. He often wished that his life was different, and that he was someone else. He wished that now, even with a damned heart. "Too bad the rest of us can't blame our writing," he said, with eyes that seemed older, somehow, despite their strangeness, eyes that knew something, knew somebody somewhere.
The devil took hold of the movie star's patting hand. He knew how to turn his claws when he wanted to, and he didn't scratch him. He was conscious of himself as he dipped his head - the horns tilted, but nowhere near close enough to scratch. He kissed the back of the star's hand instead, a brief brush of warm lips on crackling film skin. Then the devil let go. "You ought to go find yourself a starlet," he advised, with a smile and a touch of regret. "Your type, they're always written to chase those."