Post by KADEN ALLINGHAM-HEMSWORTH on Aug 20, 2013 0:08:47 GMT -5
Another day, another location. To be honest, he wasn’t sure why he hadn’t tried this one before. It was much more spacious, and thus offered more nooks and crannies for an innocent card-player and people-watcher such as himself to escape to and hide from the judgmental public eye. Oh, but he did so despise the feeling of eyes upon him. It made him feel claustrophobic, almost boxed-in, like his actions were more physically limited.
It wasn’t that he was really doing anything of consequence that he needed to hide. Except the smoking, he supposed. Silly him, he’d almost forgotten about the joint between his lips. But that activity was easily terminated, if any sign of approaching legal authority were to catch his eye. Other than that, Kaden wasn’t sure what exactly drew him so directly to hiding himself from the prying view of others. It was some sort of subconscious self-consciousness that even Kaden recognized as directly uncharacteristic of himself.
But ultimately, Kaden lacked the inclination necessary for self-analysis. He much preferred to use his particular knack for the aforementioned on other people, who tended to present much more interesting puzzles.
He’d been in the library for about an hour now, and was finding the location much more efficacious where general lazing around and exerting minimal effort was concerned than the past few locations he’d tried. Starbucks had been cozy, and of course, the proximity of high-quality food and drink was always a benefit. But the ambient noise had proved too distracting for him to put up with, and he’d lost track of the count of his cards several times. The utter silence and emptiness of the church had solved that problem, but the conversation-seeking passerbys and their attempts to turn the afternoon into a social affair had provided their own share of distractions.
So here he was at the New York Public Library, having nestled himself at a small study cubicle in a back corner, shuffling through a deck of cards in a graceful arc, muttering the traditional blackjack count to himself. The people-watching was less of an option in this location, since the wooden barrier surrounding the cubicle’s table obstructed his view of the enormous room that stretched before him, its denizens, and the fascinating, but probably also nauseatingly mundane, puzzles that they presented to him. Still, the protection that it afforded with regard to the smoking was impossible to put a price on. He inhaled deeply from the joint, glancing to his right and left every so often to make sure that no steely library employees were approaching.
”Plus six, plus seven, plus nine, plus seven, plus nine...” No, not plus nine. Plus seven still. Or was it six? Wait, it couldn’t be six. He had to have missed an eight somewhere. Shit. Even with no distractions, he was struggling to keep his count. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he re-stacked his deck and began again.
”Zero, minus one, zero, plus one…” he began to mutter again, his tongue twirling the joint in his mouth.
It wasn’t that he was really doing anything of consequence that he needed to hide. Except the smoking, he supposed. Silly him, he’d almost forgotten about the joint between his lips. But that activity was easily terminated, if any sign of approaching legal authority were to catch his eye. Other than that, Kaden wasn’t sure what exactly drew him so directly to hiding himself from the prying view of others. It was some sort of subconscious self-consciousness that even Kaden recognized as directly uncharacteristic of himself.
But ultimately, Kaden lacked the inclination necessary for self-analysis. He much preferred to use his particular knack for the aforementioned on other people, who tended to present much more interesting puzzles.
He’d been in the library for about an hour now, and was finding the location much more efficacious where general lazing around and exerting minimal effort was concerned than the past few locations he’d tried. Starbucks had been cozy, and of course, the proximity of high-quality food and drink was always a benefit. But the ambient noise had proved too distracting for him to put up with, and he’d lost track of the count of his cards several times. The utter silence and emptiness of the church had solved that problem, but the conversation-seeking passerbys and their attempts to turn the afternoon into a social affair had provided their own share of distractions.
So here he was at the New York Public Library, having nestled himself at a small study cubicle in a back corner, shuffling through a deck of cards in a graceful arc, muttering the traditional blackjack count to himself. The people-watching was less of an option in this location, since the wooden barrier surrounding the cubicle’s table obstructed his view of the enormous room that stretched before him, its denizens, and the fascinating, but probably also nauseatingly mundane, puzzles that they presented to him. Still, the protection that it afforded with regard to the smoking was impossible to put a price on. He inhaled deeply from the joint, glancing to his right and left every so often to make sure that no steely library employees were approaching.
”Plus six, plus seven, plus nine, plus seven, plus nine...” No, not plus nine. Plus seven still. Or was it six? Wait, it couldn’t be six. He had to have missed an eight somewhere. Shit. Even with no distractions, he was struggling to keep his count. Gritting his teeth in frustration, he re-stacked his deck and began again.
”Zero, minus one, zero, plus one…” he began to mutter again, his tongue twirling the joint in his mouth.
