A day like any other, during the last, dying throes of a wet winter. The sky was overcast, sullen. My toes have been chilled for days.
Please just calm down. His voice comes strained and halting through the phone. You'll find their beautiful work embedded in several chapters. Another thank you to newsbypostcard for the beta, as always. There's a joke somewhere in here about partners in crime, but I'm gonna save us all and not make it.
Don't do crime, kids! Chapter 1 Chapter Text The club is dark and quiet, save for some throaty jazz singer warbling from a stage along the back. The patrons here are focused on their gambles, perched around felt-lined tables with their top-shelf liquor in lowball glasses.
So why, then, had he dragged himself all the way into Manhattan? What was the point in combing his hair if he just planned on sitting at the bar all night like some lonely bastard? A well-pressed man had mentioned the name of his favorite private club to Steve while perusing the gallery where Steve works.
And now here he is, as if he was in a movie, cut from one scene to the next uninterrupted. The bourbon is good, at any rate, and worth staying just to finish his glass. From his seat, he watches in the long mirror behind the bar. Cards shuffle; chips fall; men and women shift in their seats as surreptitiously as possible.
The stakes here are high—much higher than Steve can afford to buy into these days. He wonders if he stands out, if everyone in here can smell it on him; if they can smell anything beyond the cloying scent of pipe tobacco and expensive perfume—both of which are starting to give his lungs trouble.
He ought not to have come at all. One of dozens to say the same thing. Steve tosses back the rest of his drink and tabs out.
Palming his pocket for wallet and phone, he makes for the door. Stupid, to have come here. No reason for it at all, save making himself feel that much worse on a Wednesday night. The jazz band begins a new song, something familiar.
Steve pauses by coat check, trying to place it before he leaves. These foolish things remind me of you. He could almost laugh. When he glances across the room toward the band, Steve spots him. He stares, hard, as if seeing some mirage—an illusion in the middle of the desert, temptation and trick.
He would hardly notice if someone actually did hit him. The seats at the blackjack table are all full.brezplaČne hip-hop delavnice za otroke in mlade - Šentjur - Med poletnimi počitnicami se bodo v mesecu juliju in avgustu, v Dobju, Šentjurju, Slivnici, na Ponikvi in v Dramljah, izvajale brezplačne plesne delavnice hip-hopa.
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