Having spent his night sleeping on this very bench, Job is still in the process of waking. Though this is hardly his first time, he finds that it only gets harder the older he gets. He’d hardly slept right, his neck stiff and back sore, haunted by dreams he cannot remember now, but knows they had been bad as he’d woken several times, sweating in his lined flannel jacket despite the chill of the night. He paid no mind to the passersby which began flooding the street as the sun rose higher and higher in the sky; hadn’t even noticed the young woman who’s joined him on the bench until she spoke to him, bent over his own lap as he rolled himself a crooked cigarette.
With it now idly smoking at the corner of his lips, he tears his glossy brown eyes to her with something of a start. “O-oh, uh – it’s Tuesday, I think.” Then, after another short pause: “October twenty-seventh.”
It’s something of a disconcerting question, one strangers don’t often ask and so, after another moment of thought (perhaps a tad longer than it should be, Job’s mind still foggy with sleep), he hurries to add, “– pardon if this is, uh… outta line, I guess, but uh – you okay?”
that’s the thing about being dead. time doesn’t exist anymore. the days roll over, one after the other. it’s horribly and painfully boring. if she wasn’t already dead, she’d kill herself.
“huh, october.” she could’ve sworn it was still september. although, it doesn’t really matter, she supposes. poppy shrugs, realizing that he’s one of the few that can actually see and hear her. it brings her a sense of relief. it’s been a while since she held a conversation with someone other than the voice in her own head. she tilts her head to the side, surprised by the question. “i — yeah. i’m — well. you know, actually. i’ve been better.”
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