He didn't even take his fucking book. Yeah, that's what he dwelt on, of all the fucking things. He hadn't even taken his book with him. Rude. It was easier to dwell on that than it was to deal with anything else that was running through his brain. He could set it all aside and deal with one thing at a time. Compartmentalize, really. He'd always been extremely skilled at compartmentalizing. It was how he managed to deal and continue on, even when fear and guilt and sorrow should cripple him and leave him only a waste of a human being.
So he finished his cigarette, pointedly not thinking of it, and went back to the signing, holding the book in his hands, as if it were nothing. He did the whole song and dance for the rest of the afternoon, smiling, signing, talking with all the young poli sci students with stars in their eyes, all the professors and intellectuals and pseudointellectuals, everyone who came. Even the young newspaper reporter with a short cut that reminded him far too much of someone from his past. He gave her kind words and something for her article, despite the uneasiness in his stomach.
But when it was all done, he had the matchbook still, and he had a hotel room with his laptop. It took really only a quick google search to figure out what he was looking at, and an even shorter time to pop painkillers to dull the pain from signing, dress, and head back out. He had a coat this time, with a hood, his shirt hidden underneath, although he'd stripped off his tie. He found what he was looking for, the shop, and hovered outside, caught outside the light of the streetlamps, before he hesitantly reached out for the door, the signed book still in hand.
no subject
So he finished his cigarette, pointedly not thinking of it, and went back to the signing, holding the book in his hands, as if it were nothing. He did the whole song and dance for the rest of the afternoon, smiling, signing, talking with all the young poli sci students with stars in their eyes, all the professors and intellectuals and pseudointellectuals, everyone who came. Even the young newspaper reporter with a short cut that reminded him far too much of someone from his past. He gave her kind words and something for her article, despite the uneasiness in his stomach.
But when it was all done, he had the matchbook still, and he had a hotel room with his laptop. It took really only a quick google search to figure out what he was looking at, and an even shorter time to pop painkillers to dull the pain from signing, dress, and head back out. He had a coat this time, with a hood, his shirt hidden underneath, although he'd stripped off his tie. He found what he was looking for, the shop, and hovered outside, caught outside the light of the streetlamps, before he hesitantly reached out for the door, the signed book still in hand.