Mateo
Champagne, cocaine, gasoline
and most things in between
and most things in between
The door to The Last Word briefly opens, bringing with it a brief gust of cold air and the smell of salt and rainfall, but Mateo doesn't look up from his repotting. His fingers are careful as they press and adjust the seedling into its new home with a variety of other plants he's certain will get along with one another, and only when he's satisfied does he set the pot aside. Wiping his hands off on a damp cloth and reaching again for his margarita, as it hits his lips, a voice draws his attention from across the bar.
"I certainly was the last time I checked," he says with a lopsided smile, his accent hugging each word in a way that makes it sound vaguely whimsical. Setting his drink back onto the bar, he turns just enough to face the bedraggled stranger, handsome in that hungry sort of way that crooked people often are. "Well, I do not have nearly as many plants to offer as I once did, but depending on what you are after I can do my best to help."
He arches an eyebrow, knowing better than to think this is about perennials or rose vines; men with scars and deep pockets don't tend to come to a bar to ask about that sort of gardening.
"I certainly was the last time I checked," he says with a lopsided smile, his accent hugging each word in a way that makes it sound vaguely whimsical. Setting his drink back onto the bar, he turns just enough to face the bedraggled stranger, handsome in that hungry sort of way that crooked people often are. "Well, I do not have nearly as many plants to offer as I once did, but depending on what you are after I can do my best to help."
He arches an eyebrow, knowing better than to think this is about perennials or rose vines; men with scars and deep pockets don't tend to come to a bar to ask about that sort of gardening.
I roam the city in a shopping cart
a pack of Camels and a smoke alarm
a pack of Camels and a smoke alarm
