taciturned:
feels good to do a GOOD DEED – go figure. even if the skinny lad doesn’t eat the sandwich out of suspicion, it still feels selfless, fortifying even, to think of someone else rather than put edible food to waste. the toothy traveller’s grin is contagious ( god forbid ) and callum can’t stop the softness of his character from faintly reflecting the expression. humans are sappy like that.
this brightness of character lasts for only a BRIEF second before dimming back into that monotone of countenance, gaze sinking down to the bag in question – illegal? ❮❮ not this time, no… ❯❯ and immediately he shakes his head with one of those screwed up brow-over-the-eyes looks that say, ‘that’s absurd’. one swift glance upwards into this fella’s hollowed face and callum’s recognising that all too familiar question in his puffy lidded eyes. it’s never easy trying to explain yourself when you can’t even TALK; there aren’t any visible clues to suggest he’s hindered by such a disorder. to a passerby, callum looks like any ordinary english kid, maybe a little rough around the edges but you couldn’t point him out and say, ‘that one can’t talk.’
with one of his little thoughts kept to himself, callum breaks form to pull out the trusty notebook stowed in the deep pocket of his black chinos. the majority of the population, anywhere he goes, most often does NOT know sign language so written words are the next best communicator. he’s scribbling on this page for a good half a minute, soon passing it over to the stranger to have him read: I’M MUTE. NOTHING ILLEGAL IN THE BAG, I’M JUST FULL. GOT A PLACE TO STAY? - JOHN.
cohen would wait with practiced patience for the next message to be scrawled out, sunken eyes lit by curiosity and intrigue while he watches after the other diligently work across the paper with his pen. too, he’d wait for the sandwich. our boy was polite even when running on completely empty. he was just glad for the conversation, the company, no matter how brief and no matter how bizarre it had been to come by.
“oh i must look like hell, huh,” he’ll say after he’s through with letter. more of a statement than a question really, and for himself, followed by an exhale of a laugh. dismissive of his own morbid, self-deprecating sense of humour, he’ll meekly drop his sight to floor only to catch a glimpse of that stray shoelace of his caught beneath one of his battered oxfords. confirmed his words, that did, but he’d worry about those later. for now, he’ll dig through the inner pocket of his tweed blazer to retrieve a trusty, leather-bound notebook of his own ( he’s mute, not deaf, cohen ), sheets of unfinished poems, guitar chords, pressed leaves and other artifacts threatening to spill from the loose confines of that worn-out string. he’d give it a go of his own, tuck the sandwich bag snug into the crook of his arm and trace surprisingly neat cursive over a blank page that reads: gonna be honest with you man. i cant remember the last time ive had a place to stay. the bins out back looked clea comfortable. if theyll let me. dont want a run in with no cops again. thanks for the grub, john. i mean it. God bless you. - cohen he’d get carried away with it, the whole writing thing—end up writing too much and make light of the pitiful situation. how silly the two of them must have looked, hauled up in the middle of a convenience store aisle with the soft vocals of the two carpenters playing overhead. but cohen didn’t care. he never had any problem looking silly.
