Re: Deck chairs; sitting.
Nobody could do nothing about childhood. The bottles couldn't do anything about childhood either. They couldn't rewind, if this guy felt like rewind as an option, but he was peachy keen on erase. It wasn't a conversation stopper but he didn't feel like lingering on it either. Nobody didn't look like a psychoanalyst and this guy wasn't stretched out with his arms behind his head and his history up for examination. He wasn't intractably consumed by dumpsters, this guy, but he wasn't an entrepreneur either, he could just think like one on command. He was going through a lot tonight, one by one and in rapid succession so the entrepreneur thing, that might pass.
He laughed instead. At the punch-line to sincerity and at the throaty sound of Nobody's riff. Sincerity didn't count for much right now. It could have been the genuine goodness of Nobody's heart or it could have been a little liquid, a little temporary. This guy wormed his hand into his jeans pocket, between squelched denim and the drenched cotton of his pocket liner and crammed the lighter back in there. It was a wedge by his hip, not comfortable but solidly there. The lighter was consistent even if this guy was not. "Asshole," he said warmly, with the kind of appreciation made for one shit-stirrer to another.
"Everyone has limits." He rolled his shoulders, unapologetic. "Up here." He tapped his forehead with one damp finger, "I just took a night off. Could be about what people think, could be about what you think about yourself. I don't know," he shrugged it off like so much lake-water. "I'm MIA. I'm AWOL, baby." He grinned. Restraints were for remembering, and this guy wasn't keen on chains. "Tell me tomorrow, all that stuff about your eyes closed. I'll listen." He sounded sincere. He might have been, in might have been the moment for it.
There were probably romantics around. There were options, and this guy had picked the way he had picked deliberate. Romantic hadn't spun the wheel yet, but maybe it would by the end of the night. This guy was adjusting to the stop-start rhythm and he was enjoying the ride. But Nobody sounded less like a lazy son-of-a-bitch and more methodical about the way this worked.
He was expecting no moves. Nobody sounded like the kind of guy who made moves he'd figured out first. But the move came. He was cold and his mouth was cold and his skin was damp and wet. His cheek glanced off Nobody's chin in the seconds that hesitancy maybe, made up. This guy wasn't hesitant. He was sat kind of awkward because like I said, no moves were expected, latent interest that was cued up to sizzle like cigarette ash in water, but his knee dragged wet denim on concrete, and he adjusted.
"You trying something out?" He said it conversationally, because he didn't mind the answer.