Re: Deck chairs; sitting.
He came with a flick-knife in one jeans pocket and a lighter in the other and he wasn't a risk-taker or a party-goer or even an aesthetic with an appreciation for a good time lit up in the dark. He had necked a little bottle without caring for the little label at its throat. This wasn't Alice in Wonderland, it would all wear off at the end and the tag had dropped forgotten under somebody else's feet. The empty rolled around in his coat pocket but he had shed that like a loose snake-skin within minutes of getting under the lights.
His feet slapped sneakers over concrete toward the line of the water that glimmered and lapped like it was tame for the evening. It wasn't tame even if you built an edifice of strong glass and reclaimed wood to look at it. The lake house was big money. It didn't need a fresh-stocked bar and an orchestral soundtrack to tell the guy with the drink that rattled ice-cubes and liquid, that whoever owned this place in the daytime was moneybags. He didn't resent that. But it made him think of how many windows this place had and whether the guy who lived there when the town wasn't partying would even care if they all smashed.
If this was Repose, it was one facet of a dice-set that kept rolling over and over. He was okay with that or he didn't care about that right now, the man who dug a cigarette out of somewhere on his person and lit it with the flame of a cigarette lighter a little too old to be reliable, and it squeaked. He crammed the glass into the fat of his palm and he arrived at the chair kitty-close to the guy reclining in sweet threads to the sound of his laughter and he smirked around the cigarette.
"Hold this." He held out the glass and the cigarette without giving a shit if they were taken and if they weren't he put them down on the concrete at the bottom of the chair and he sat and began to yank off his shoe.