Vincent (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} king_of_gods) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} paxletalelogs,@ 2010-08-03 18:01:00 |
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What: Hookah and catching up night.
Where: Hookah Lounge in No. Ho. If anyone else partakes in such things, feel free to cut in!
When: Evening.
Warnings: PG-13. These two are not surprisingly quite shameless and are capable of being obnoxious.
She knew him.
He'd never admit to, or be obvious about agreeing to anything that anyone ever asked for. E.v.e.r. Thus, he'd dodged her appeal to be provided a reward in honor of her becoming his neighbor. His kind of neighbor, that is. A few floors separated them, and that was technically neighbors, but only kind of.
The element of the pleasantly unexpected gem of surprise was to him one of man's last refuges of unselfish expression; one of our most valuable and prized possessions was to be unpredictable creatures, and to handsomely protect the object of our secret desires to please other's feelings. A Merlin, bone-like box at the back of a cave somewhere held the secrets to the universe on a scroll, having read them, he can state with certainty that one of them was: Always give great gifts.
Sadly, he wasn't so cloak and dagger as he could be. People who knew him, knew well his generosity. He was in fact one of the most dependably benevolent and ample creatures strolling the Earth in a black t-shirt, gray jeans, and red chucks. She may have been only kidding, but he didn't give a fuck. She asked for something pretty and he got her a very suitably elegant, yet borderline dangerous dress which was somewhat understated, but when worn by her would be (hopefully) voluptuously overdone. She could try it on later.
They drove out all the way out to North Hollywood to have themselves some hookah in a joint with dim lights, mostly blood red, and couches outside. They were surrounded by people seemingly of the same agenda. By the hints he caught of other peoples conversations here and there, it appeared the ritualistic endeavor of smoking and eating was an undeniably successful tool in chasing after memories which often times grow more and more obscure as minutes, hours, weeks, months pass with no obligation to recall them...
"What's weird," he'd said, skimming the minty tobacco menu. "Is that I kinda feel like I'm supposed to be here. You feel me? In the building, that is." he tapped spearmint. "I want that, unless you want some girly fruit flavor."