Cigarette held between two fingertips as the lights flicker in the small diner; the kind of lighting that one never WANTS to be in yet, here he is a two a.m. That coffee of Jackson’s has long ago gone lukewarm as silver spoon that’s held in free hand pushes liquid around. Looks to the right as Camille goes to sit. Makes one wonder just who the hell was lonely enough to sit at a shitty diner into the wee hours of morning. Waitress gestures to coffee cup as he nods, and pushes it forward. A refill is in DIRE need. Then raises cigarette to lips as he inhales, ❛❛ We’ll cast some light, and you’ll be alright ❜❜ words exhaled in a cloud of smoke as another finger goes to flick as in ashtray. He himself doesn’t know just what the words mean, though it looks like she’s in some need of reassurance. That’s how it is in suffocating small-towns, towns in which they never let you forget who you were ten years ago, much less forgive.
.:: STARTER CALL / @praeker : ‘crosses’ jose gonźalez
