@nouveaurlche 📌 library, the brownstone, new york
he was almost asleep, sat with fingers splayed over the desk and the curve of a book he tried making sense of. half tempted to try and pick at the locks of the cabinets.
isolation seemed fine now, best even, than wandering and stumbling into the others with their echoing questions, mirthful gazes or--truthfully, hard to decipher what they might offer. he liked their company, but right now he preferred solitude.
solitude found no favor towards him, no matter how much he sought it. the footsteps a clear indication of someone coming. he got up, intent on getting away while there was time but it was too little too late, books in hand, turning a corner to deliver them to their place only to run into someone he hadn't had the chance to know more than in passing just yet.
he had enough time to grin and raise a hand and then
laughter, the warmth of pub after the cold of rain. crouched over his drink, watching as men drunk and joked and bumped into each other. the drinks kept coming, the men kept laughing, jokes that were overheard as his eyes peered over thick glasses meeting another man's before both turned away.
some jokes he knew, at his expense. he did not react. making himself smaller, giving himself another hour, just for his clothes to dry out fully.
it happened fast. quick fingers over a man's wallet, cash pulled out before he could even notice. a meal for the next morning at least. he should have been more worried about who was watching him instead.
it ended as fast as it began. an accusation, hands on his shirt. a fist on his face. then the ground, someone under him, fists covering them in punches. hands pulling him away, only to fade when he threw his head back and felt his hair wet with more blood from a broken nose.
glasses hidden away, crooked but not broken as he swapped wallets and punched men away fading into the night faster than they could call the cops.
the feeling of blood on his hands was as real as it had been, the pain on the back of his head and the throbbing of his knuckles. "no." he said, loud and frustrated, and watched as the word seemed to suck in the air in the room--like a bar before he started singing, crowd quiet for a second, eyes on him.
everything was still, there was for a moment only him, his voice, his words and the man who had witnessed his memory. the one he wanted to make forget.
