Nate
Nate hasn’t made a thing of being awake again, not really. Not yet. It’s not like he’s going to great lengths to hide himself, but truth be told it doesn’t feel real. Days have passed by this point, and the time has come for a daylight excursion. Despite the stolen coat and scarves, Nate’s silhouette is obvious, made all the more obvious by the truly comical number of baskets and boxes strewn across his four false arms, some already half full with various produce.His flesh and wave and gesture wildly as he argues with a merchant, the woman staring impassively at his emotion. “Look, I didn’t wake up yesterday, okay?” Nate is trying to keep the pitch of his voice low, trying to make it seem like he’s not growing too upset. “We had a deal, right? Good whiskey for turnips, and I,” he pauses to grab one of the vegetables from the basket, ignoring the woman’s complaint, and too quick for her grasping hand trying to stop him, “I don’t even know what the fuck this is? I mean, it’s white, I wanted turnips, not whatever these are!”
Nate doesn’t seem to care that his voice is carrying, that he’s making a scene. And he doesn’t know it, but he wouldn’t particularly care to find out that he’s the wrong one either.
Do you read fuck-up in my walk?
Do you see fuck-up on my face?
Do you see fuck-up on my face?
Do I mean anything at all?
