Light Ice
A Real Bastard
- Joined
- Feb 12, 2003
- Posts
- 5,398
The bar, again, and water again. It seems strange to be here suddenly. Different. That's a reflection of the day, though; a consequence of his idle hands. The battered leather-bound notepad that is so frequently in his back pocket is produced along with a weary looking pencil. A few notes jotted. A sketch drawn. His hand is not the talented hand of an artist. The strokes with the charcoal pencil are crude and efficient. Angles, straight lines, lacking depth and forging themselves into a rough skeleton.
A plan of sorts.
Football isn't on for a bit. He'll vanish when it is. There were friends to tend to. A certain girl in a cute little jersey to stand beside. It could be worse.
But the down time ticked slow today and ate at him, forged in him a lingering and unfocused discontent.
His friends were left their usual gifts. Tulips for she, arranged neatly on the bar in white paper - a six pack of Middle Ages Brown Ale for him.
A plan of sorts.
Football isn't on for a bit. He'll vanish when it is. There were friends to tend to. A certain girl in a cute little jersey to stand beside. It could be worse.
But the down time ticked slow today and ate at him, forged in him a lingering and unfocused discontent.
His friends were left their usual gifts. Tulips for she, arranged neatly on the bar in white paper - a six pack of Middle Ages Brown Ale for him.

