Coke was snorting in a corner. Allergy season in New York City was perhaps one of his most favorite seasons. There were two: the whole of spring, and the beginning of fall when ragweed and mildew and pollen floated through the air until some poor mortal unintentionally inhaled or swallowed them down. The result was the expected red, itchy eyes, the occasional cough, and best of all the covered sneeze. The sneeze always seemed precede the sniffle, and with enough sniffles and sneezes came the eventual giant and uncouth snort that generally signified that snorter needed a tissue. But until then, there was the snort, and in a small diner during early fall, there were plenty of snorters. Coke didn't have allergies, but he fit right in.
It was as he'd confessed to Heroin the other night; he was almost looking to get caught again. Eventually he would, surreptitiously sniffing up lines of cocaine in public like this. He had a black coffee on the table in front of him and a few empty packets of sugar, only some of which had actually gone into the mug. The rest was divided into neat little lines on the table, cut in perfectly with his own substance. He twirled a red and white coffee stirrer between his fingers, sucking up line by line every few minutes.
Immortals didn't get colds, but Coke sounded as if he had a bad one. He ignored the mortals who glanced in his direction. Even the other immortal presence in the diner got barely more than a glance to size her up and then a look of warning. Yes, he was thinking about jail, but he wasn't sure if he wanted to go just that morning.