Log: Casey and Damian @ zee Diner
He was wearing a t-shirt. Black jeans, black sneakers, and a red-and-black striped t-shirt. Damian had made the walk from the manor to the tiny strip of downtown Repose. It was just above 30°C, and the man was not so stubborn as to willingly force himself to lose consciousness just to wear his hoodie to the diner. No. The t-shirt was fine. He walked with his chin down and sweat gathered on the underside of his jaw and neck, where skin stuck to skin. Dampness clung along the line of his spine and where hair met his forehead. He did not mind being hot, however. It was far from overbearing—he had endured much worse—and the trek was not long. He bore the heat without bothering to wipe away sweat and he smoked a cigarette as he went. It was a nice day, which was a decidedly asinine evaluation, but he allowed it to remain where it sat in his mind.
Perhaps he ought have felt something regarding this meeting with Casey Donovan. Perhaps he ought have had great misgivings. But, Damian did not. He did not anticipate the conference, such as it was, with excitement, but he did not dread it either. There was far too much going on in his life for that, and, beyond that, the man could leave whenever he wished to. Or so was his thinking. In fact, it was perhaps true that he had purposefully not thought on the meeting, that he had minimized it in his mind, so that he could approach it without a stirring of anything in his belly. I am not saying this is what he did, but it was possible.
The sun gleamed off of the diner's roof, and Damian shielded his eyes with his hand, until he was swallowed by the building's shadow. He had seen the figure by the motorcycle from far off, and he had recognized it, but he did not acknowledge it until he was near. He did not smile in greeting, however. But, he did not frown, which, though Casey did not know it, was as much of a compliment as most received from Damian.—The smaller man smoked the rest of his cigarette to the bone, then crushed it out under heel. He exhaled the last wisps of smoke and looked unblinkingly at Casey, at the mug in his hand, at the bike, at the cigarette, then back to Casey. Damian was not hungry. He did not require this diner's sustenance, and, even if he had, it was unlikely he would have subjected himself to such.
"The food here is horrible," he told Casey as a hello, his voice flat and without intonation. "The coffee is worse."