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@cowboynoir
“Housekee— Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”
She’d done two knocks on the door while leaning against a cart stocked with clean towels and bed linen before the door swung open and her fist fell through the air for a few seconds, with the same raw swooping feeling that comes when you miss a step going downstairs.
“What’d you fuckin’ do that for?” Open the door, that is. It’s been a long shift and she’s only been here an hour.
@cowboynoir.
‘ how come you don’t own anything fitted? ’ he lifts his head to shoot ari a look that’s equal parts disbelief and disappointment. half an hour of rummaging through a literal car trunk of a wardrobe should have turned up at least one top that’s been fatally shrunk in the wash, or so you’d think. ‘ jesus, i’d almost be better off stealing a shirt from luther. ’
‘ you seek these places out or what? ’ ernie doesn’t mean to sound unfriendly (much less bitter, at the precipice of which he is precariously balanced). he thinks, with an apologetic flinch, that it comes from a place of jealousy. ari gets to choose. ernie doesn’t.
he tucks his hands into his pant pockets and mimics the other’s posture, follows his gaze to the vaulted recess of the creepy church they occupy.
‘ first bert’s, ’ he continues. ‘ doesn’t it make you feel weird? don’t we? ’
@cowboynoir, sc.
@cowboynoir -- STARTER FROM YOGI.
Yogi turns every situation he’s in into a cartoon, and when he waltzes by Ari sitting on a bench overlooking the beach, and takes a seat beside him, he thinks they might look like they’re animated by Chuck Jones. A mime and a detective. Yogi sticks his hands in his pockets to harvest his matchbook, and he picks out a match and lights it, bringing it to the end of a cigarette that has been dangling between his black-colored lips for a while now. He inhales, the cherry red end of it glowing molten in the dimming August dusk, and then he plucks it from his mouth and offers it to his new pal. The filter is rimmed with lipstick.
“Here. No cost. Best things in life are free.”
cosmo snaps and points by way of a greeting. his hand is far enough from the ear of the young lady with whom he’s ‘flirting’ that he doesn’t come across an irredeemably rude individual, but it is still loud (strong, practiced fingers) and he does still flinch apologetically.
‘ boy, am i glad to see you. ’ he tips an invisible hat, offers a charming sorry, and excuses himself from his company to join the stranger shuffling past. loud enough for the girl to hear, he says, ‘ we were starting to think you’d been lost to time. ’ quiet enough that she can’t: ‘ make like we’re pals for two minutes, would you? ’
@cowboynoir, sc.
@cowboynoir
“Her?” Their eyes trip from his hand terminal and then back to his face. He looks earnest. “Ya, I saw her. I’ll tell you where.”
“For a price, sasa ke?”
@cowboynoir
“My mama had these little blue books about divination ‘n stuff and they were like, coffee table books, but one of them was called a dream dictionary and it said if you have the letter G in your dream then it’s about money.” But he probably knows that already, right, ‘cause he’s a pro, so. “That’s what you do? Tell folks what their dreams mean?”
He wakes up only when he’s exhausted any and all positions and attempts at sleeping in a chair, his lower back sore and his shoulders stiff. Light comes filtering through the motel’s cheap and insufficient curtains which is just as well -- he doesn't think he can bear spending another moment sitting down.
The first thing he wants is a cigarette, his mouth dry and tasting of ashes; but first, on his way to the door, Job stops at the side of the bed to investigate whether Ari has woken up yet. He isn’t sure, exactly, what it is he should be expecting when he does (a small part at the back of his mind afraid that the man will find him too daft to actually involve in... whatever it is that he does. Job would be lying if he said he understood) -- but he’s excited nevertheless.
“Hey...” he whispers, squinting in the relative darkness of the room.
@cowboynoir.
