These days, he wasn’t feeling very human. It probably all depends on how you act and how you treat yourself.. but, for Lukas, that’s not very well. The most simple aspects of living were frequently overlooked. Shaving and sustenance always pitched to the back burner and forgotten until they hit the point of boiling over. Until his mangy beard began to scare the children(& their single mothers). Until his stomach ran a tilt a whirl of broken, gnashing gears and rumbling, derailed locomotives. The pangs were unforgiving now, and the torture was a new kind of euphoria that he embraced for another five minutes, five wonderfully empty minutes, before brandished boot heels took him into the next diner’s doorway.
No, she wasn’t hallucinating the dead volcanic dust on this patron, not this round. His jeans took on the tiger stripes of black grease and scorch marks that mimicked Satan’s handshake. The menu's faded hieroglyphics were deciphered between the questionable stains that permeated the thin lamination. He licked the ash blackened pad of his thumb and rubbed away a dried ketchup smear that half obscured the fine print of Daily Specials. The man was half distracted in her approach when he swept some rogue soot from his t-shirt, which was a weathered navy cotton that boasted creamy silkscreen, I Got Crabs At Lou’s Boat Shack. Didn’t everyone?
A twirl of cotton candy pink hooked his line of sight, and Lukas glanced up with a pleasant, but practiced & therefore believable, smile tacked to his cactus jaw. She had shadows for eyes, and he met with a brief burial before attention dropped to the full carve of her mouth. Watching her lips spill soundless secrets, he tracked the shift of her tongue with a briefly pitched brow and distracted interest. Anything to drink? He seemed to consider the formulation of an answer until his sight took in the stained vision of a coffee pot behind the counter. Lukas gestured to it with a flex of a trigger finger, silently.