Saturday mornings were mornings meant for strolls and enjoying a cup of good, strong coffee, which Absalom procured from a Turkish cafe not too far from his Vinter residence. It was this cup of coffee that invigorated him in the morning, easing the aches in his false-mortal bones, and it was one of the few things that he liked about being, well -- part of the human beings, he supposed, though he was never truly one of them so much as a bemused onlooker. People tended to look bemusedly at him as well: he with his bright button-downs (this time, an Aloha shirt sent by a former coworker) and a pair of jeans that had probably gone on the Grateful Dead tour and then some, judging by the colorful fringe hanging from the sides of his legs. No doubt embellished lovingly by its fomer owner, the entire ensemble gave Absalom the look of being slightly -- well, off. But luckily, he was at the age where one could get away with those sort of things: either very young or very old, and he was decidedly the latter, though he acted the former.
It was this fashion disaster which bumped into Bob that morning. He had been waiting behind him in line for the ice cream truck and, as was Absalom's tendency, eavesdropping without much remorse. He could never wrap his mind around the human concept of 'privacy' when they so wanted to parade around other things. Picking and choosing seemed to be a silly way to go about it, and he never had a handle of what was permissible and which was decidedly not. He got one scoop of vanilla mounted proudly on a cone and sat not far away from Robert, watching as they both ate their ice cream.
When the mortal man stood, so did Absalom. When it became clear that he, possibly, had no idea where he was going, Absalom decided to make his presence known.
"Are you trying to get somewhere?" he asked kindly, not aware that Robert might not want to associate with a man who looked like he fell into some imaginative child's costume trunk.