Re: log: easy + miles; reunion
Miles’ mien couldn’t help itself but to drip into a gladspun grin, slow coming, close-mouthed as it was, at least, at first. It was preordained to yarn into a vaster, toothier display of his shock. The man was not as he recalled. Not the walmart stoop of cigarette bones nor the ramen noodle physique. This man was different. Walked different. Carried himself closer at the center, as if pulled inward. It was an invisible feeling, this difference. Misty would say this intuition was because he was a pisces. He’d say it was because he’d always known people just by the look of them, without them having to utter a word. Of course, it had been a time since they’d been acquainted, but there was something both harder and softer about Easy, something he found himself unable to tag. He let the implacable thought of it be, the formless idea sink down. He is an accepting man, Miles is. He doesn’t care if someone feels different.
“Course I do.” he said, in his plain dusty black, his jeans once black waning into a ghoulish grey. His mangy boots plod closer in their burnished timeworn buckle, outcast from the thrift debris of a motorcyclists last James Dean voyage on a lost highway. The pack of camels is extracted from where it once cozed in a droopy pocket. The top is thumbed open in sacrificial offering, shook loose is a single benediction. “Got a whole other pack if you want it, on account of it seems to me reminiscing involves a full platoon of cigarettes.”
This is Misty’s cue, How long have you known this one? From real far back, right? Ain’t he so strange? she chirped. Miles doesn’t react. He’s too practiced in feigning obliviousness to her trills.