Jun 10, 2020
@mrstockman, call.
‘ i don’t believe we have met. ’ as he offers it, gus wonders for one childish, flutter-by moment whether this man can see how many hands his own has shaken over the course of the evening. he feels as though each touch thickens a film over his skin; that every grip-and-rattle exchange is countable in the lines of his palm.
he’s an unfamiliar face, thus late in gus’ rotation and granted little in the way of energy. his lips quirk with an apology he won’t give.
‘ los pollos hermanos, ’ he says, testing the limits of the face he’s painted on by smiling creases into the space around his eyes. ‘ gus. ’
