[ Metzger’s showing his age in these last few years: he’s more silver and iron than blonde these days, often lapsing into grim introspection when he thinks no one is looking. Tension works taut in the trap of his jaw while he waits at the bar, brow hooded low down at the galvanized grain until he realizes there’s a bowl of flatbread chips next to his wrist. His entire attitude sublimates into ‘hey snacks!’
The effect was telling while it lasted.
A moment later, he returns to thump down a fresh round, grace limited more by his not giving a shit than it is by the length of his arms or his BAC. Cave beer. ]
Thoughtful about what?
[ He retakes his seat with loose-limbed precision, nearly a flourish. ]
no subject
The effect was telling while it lasted.
A moment later, he returns to thump down a fresh round, grace limited more by his not giving a shit than it is by the length of his arms or his BAC. Cave beer. ]
Thoughtful about what?
[ He retakes his seat with loose-limbed precision, nearly a flourish. ]