Apr 12, 2015
Lips are eternally sealed (maybe) as the dip leading from the sole of his foot, to the heel of his foot drops comfortably to the resting space a chair (with paper stuffed under one of the legs to attempt halting it’s permanent wobble) offers him. This diner is dead, isn’t it? Lou likes it, he’s decided, but, why are you sitting next to him when the chair a few options away looks absolutely clean? He mumbles something audible, ketchup from sloppy eggs caught in the corner of his mouth,
“’m not gonna buy you anythin’.”