-she appears from behind his eyelids when he starts to adjust to the lower light of the room. he had just walked over the threshold of the blistering 97 degree parking lot, into this, his daily routine. she’s become something of a reminder, but he can’t quite place it. makes coming to work less of a chore. passers-by at best, they nod and smirk at each other, before returning to what the other had distracted them from, just seconds ago.
-“what in sam hell– don’t you start with me, basketcase.. i don’t have time to be sorry for that later,” he says in the direction of his own brain.
(what the fuck was that? i don’t get heart palpitations. maybe doc will give me somethin’ for it.)
outside the loading dock bay just behind the security desk, the cigarette is lit, almost faster than the flame could catch the paper.
his hair- a disruptive, tortuous length, just above his ears, maple syrup hued curls for days, almost sopping with sweat from the hell fire ride here in rush hour.
his face- dotted with last night’s fresh shave. it was a big night that called for grown up hygienic efforts. aftershave burns when you don’t stick to the recommended splash to your neck and cheeks, but it smells like confidence and power, neither of which he is willing to relinquish control over.
his shirt- long sleeved and collared, his favorite shade of red, his dad’s lucky silver cufflinks, and two buttons open- the collar and the first. obligatory black bow tie draping from respective sides of the collar.
his pants- pleated, black dress pants that are a little starchy, but somehow smooth to the touch, held at his hip bones by a black slip loop belt, just to assert his independence. his work badge is clipped to his pocket, he was too tired to fight with the belt loops. wrinkled dress shirt tucked in loosely, hurriedly.
his shoes- size eleven, tan “cobian” flip flops from some trendy, far away surf shop in the gulf. his boss had said business casual attire, and he can’t pass up the opportunity to make a pointless statement.
he was still wearing these things this afternoon, and he reeked of dark whisky. in need of a cold splash to the face and a change of clothes, he makes his way to the employee locker room. her eyes follow him around the corner, as he's strolling across the casino floor, where he’s a slots attendant, and she can’t help but roll her eyes, muttering “what a douche” through her tiny smirk. night shift is here, and they’re both running on less than two hours of sleep.
