Don't chase the rabbit
>What's the point in wearing a watch when you're in Times Square. It's November 1st, just this last year of 2013, and a thousand faces - both human and digital - tell anyone willing to pay attention that it's just gone five (5:13pm, to be exact) as the city's floodgates open. The morning's news is already the mush of melting snow underfoot, and no one cares. Time moves so fast. It's already 5:16pm, damnit.
Neither are really looking where they're going, anyway. Weaving through the crowd in the direction of a favored sushi spot - why did he choose to eat out at rush hour, he still cannot fathom - the first blond shoves a hand through his hair to push the fringe out his eye, a portfolio stuck under one arm. The eyepatch itches today. Everything itches, really, but the slurry of voices both in and outside his head are a little too much to contend with when trying to concentrate. He gives his hair a last irritable swipe, the fringe just falling back into its original spot, and pushes past a group of tourists, occasionally craning his neck to judge the best path to talk.
The second blond is taller and carrying a briefcase, chattering away in some European language scandalously fast, in a scandalously cheery manner. He shrugs his fur coat around him more and trots a little faster, already thinking about his bed and the cat and the potential of catching up on that show about cannibals that aired on NBC earlier in the year. He's only four episodes in, but it's surprisingly gripping, he tells the person on the other end of the phone. Why waste time talking about airports and boring lawyer stuff. Maybe Numbers would pick up? Dexter was looking pretty good. What's the point in a television show about serial killers if they don't do cool things with them.
Those voiced thoughts are only half heard by the first blond, as they walk straight into each other, and the second is interrupted mid-stream. The phone bounces out of his gloved hand and he immediately stumbles further after it, briefcase cascading to one side. Fairing a little better, the first rights himself properly and half considers keeping going, before deciding on common courtesy. He turns to help, catching a couple of errant papers that slip free. Straightening, he holds them out.
"Sorry," they both utter at the same time, with the similar kind of suspicious apologetic tone. The second blond's eyes are pulled momentarily to the eyepatch, but he snaps them away. He was brought up not to stare.
"Dropped a couple of papers," they exchange hands, and each dust themselves off, avoiding eye contact for a moment.
"Thank you," the second retains his cheeriness, aware his phonecall is still going, "sorry about. You know." A waved hand dissuades him from going further. They sort themselves, and go to carry on their way, when the first pauses.
"Oh, by the way," he pushes his fringe unsuccessfully out of his eye, and the other subconsciously copies the movement, "the first couple of seasons of Dexter are pretty good. Watch out, though, it starts going downhill." The taller bobs his head in gratitude, and they move past each other, disappearing into the crowds again.
Later, over sushi, the first mulls the encounter over a little. He taps the chopsticks on his lips in thought - bad etiquette, probably, he knows - and squints at nothing. It's probably nothing, he figures, but those cheekbones looked a hell of a lot like his own.
