washed up and feeling blue

zephyr

He does stick out like a sore thumb, damn pale thing with owl eyes who looks like he washed out of a fairytale. Definitely too clean to belong to Torchline while also appearing to have just crawled up from a long nap in a particularly musty cave, like a prince who's been under a witch's curse or a hipster influencer trying to pass off barely intact clothing as chic.

These are the things you think (sort of, obviously, with some artistic liberties taken) as you sit on a stoop, taking bites out of an apple and watching the familiar marketplace milieu. Poor Whitey keeps catching your eye with his lost puppy act, which means he's either actually lost or pretending really hard. Either way you figure you ought to step in and intervene, because wandering fuckers are part of a recipe for a bigger headache somewhere down the road.

You finish your apple and discard the core, then stand up and amble towards the fellow, hands shoved deep in your pockets. A nod or word of greeting is offered here and there, but your primary attention is on your prey new friend. You come to a stop at his left shoulder, casual as anything, head tilted to the side as you pretend to be looking at whatever it is that's caught his eye. "Evenin', friend," comes the mild murmur. "Lookin' fer somethin' in particular?"

we were toogether
who cared about the rest?