[ He's in the new apartment, eased against the kitchen counter and pouring an inaugural drink. He absorbs it as a welcome shock and rolls the empty glass between his palms. Idleness, light glancing off his bracelet: that's all it is. Most days the network's silent. Maybe that's the end of the world, having nothing left to say. ]
Thanks.
[ She's already gone but he feels her slip away. He bangs down the glass, clutches the edge of the counter with both hands. They'd never been acquainted, just interlaced. Meeting without surprise or disappointment. He slams his hands into the counter. The glass jumps.
Later he rereads the message. It's impersonal. Maria's grasping at something. He tries to reason what it could be, but he's tired of secrets and his last hope of discharging them is gone.
The heat stutters on. The room starts to fill with the smell of burned dust. ]
As for the bar, I don't think you were next in line.
private text (and abundant tl;dr)
Thanks.
[ She's already gone but he feels her slip away. He bangs down the glass, clutches the edge of the counter with both hands. They'd never been acquainted, just interlaced. Meeting without surprise or disappointment. He slams his hands into the counter. The glass jumps.
Later he rereads the message. It's impersonal. Maria's grasping at something. He tries to reason what it could be, but he's tired of secrets and his last hope of discharging them is gone.
The heat stutters on. The room starts to fill with the smell of burned dust. ]
As for the bar, I don't think you were next in line.