Folded over on the small couch in the corner, aside from the others, the boy stirred. He dislodged the threadbare throw covering him, and it fell on the floor.
Lillian paid him little attention. He seemed a bright enough young man, but he was just another drone who failed to moderate his drinking, and Lillian was sure she’d have difficulty picking him out of a lineup the next day or two.
What she did pay attention to was the mood here. It was good, everything considered. All the build-up, the extremity of it. This business required a certain finesse—most of the things were dealt with an expert touch. Somebody had to. There was a demand. And they were good at it.
Satisfied, Lillian had begun to enjoy the way the lights grew more intense; the simmering music adjusted at the slightest cue, the conversations didn’t slow down for a second in this increasingly crowded environment.
It was hard to hear any particular exchange because of this ambient background. A few words, not Russian. English. This was rare, but she did not question it.
Lillian wondered if there would be more… she, also, was allowing the momentum of the club to take her in.
She saw the drunk boy look her up and down, staring.
She didn’t know him. But he should rest, as the pain and vodka (or whatever adult beverage he had) crash should drift away over the course of the night if he slept.
But the young man couldn’t lie down. He was too buzzed.
He managed to sit up when he finally realized he could, and faced Lillian against the light with a big, winsome smile...
She acknowledged him with a slight nod. He was perspiring from the warm, damp air.
She looked at the boy again, as if considering a response, but didn’t reply.
There was something new... off ... about his features, his burnished curls, his manner. He was slender, and his youth lent him a feminine aspect, but in contrast to his extraordinary litheness, he was strong, forceful, undaunted. Awake.
That, and his eyes seemed very old, as though they had seen too much.
He staggered backwards, eyes watering, clamped with inexpressive discomfort / physical hurt, fist balled at the throat, mouth wide, no sounds coming out. He couldn’t call out.
She got in, crouched down, and tried to discern the actual words, tried to fish them out of that gasping mouth. What was he saying?
Lillian tried not to smile at the horrified expression on his face.
“Calm down. Just take it slow and quiet for a bit, see if that brings you down to a place where you can catch some sleep.” The diplomat turned, her left hand deftly slipped the pack of smokes from her hip pocket. “I’m going to get some air. Attend to yourself."
It wasn’t entirely reassuring, wasn’t meant to be.
Do I look like a sentimental bastard to him?
She was simply passing on what experience showed her.
Lillian thought about it for a moment. She just had an unbidden mental image of herself with nothing but a small glass bottle of water and an encouraging bedside manner.
The idea of her nursing him made her smile, but not in an actual useful can-I-get-you-more-water-or-pills way.
She shrugged and turned to leave.
Lillian paid him little attention. He seemed a bright enough young man, but he was just another drone who failed to moderate his drinking, and Lillian was sure she’d have difficulty picking him out of a lineup the next day or two.
What she did pay attention to was the mood here. It was good, everything considered. All the build-up, the extremity of it. This business required a certain finesse—most of the things were dealt with an expert touch. Somebody had to. There was a demand. And they were good at it.
Satisfied, Lillian had begun to enjoy the way the lights grew more intense; the simmering music adjusted at the slightest cue, the conversations didn’t slow down for a second in this increasingly crowded environment.
It was hard to hear any particular exchange because of this ambient background. A few words, not Russian. English. This was rare, but she did not question it.
Lillian wondered if there would be more… she, also, was allowing the momentum of the club to take her in.
She saw the drunk boy look her up and down, staring.
She didn’t know him. But he should rest, as the pain and vodka (or whatever adult beverage he had) crash should drift away over the course of the night if he slept.
But the young man couldn’t lie down. He was too buzzed.
He managed to sit up when he finally realized he could, and faced Lillian against the light with a big, winsome smile...
She acknowledged him with a slight nod. He was perspiring from the warm, damp air.
She looked at the boy again, as if considering a response, but didn’t reply.
There was something new... off ... about his features, his burnished curls, his manner. He was slender, and his youth lent him a feminine aspect, but in contrast to his extraordinary litheness, he was strong, forceful, undaunted. Awake.
That, and his eyes seemed very old, as though they had seen too much.
He staggered backwards, eyes watering, clamped with inexpressive discomfort / physical hurt, fist balled at the throat, mouth wide, no sounds coming out. He couldn’t call out.
She got in, crouched down, and tried to discern the actual words, tried to fish them out of that gasping mouth. What was he saying?
Lillian tried not to smile at the horrified expression on his face.
“Calm down. Just take it slow and quiet for a bit, see if that brings you down to a place where you can catch some sleep.” The diplomat turned, her left hand deftly slipped the pack of smokes from her hip pocket. “I’m going to get some air. Attend to yourself."
It wasn’t entirely reassuring, wasn’t meant to be.
Do I look like a sentimental bastard to him?
She was simply passing on what experience showed her.
Lillian thought about it for a moment. She just had an unbidden mental image of herself with nothing but a small glass bottle of water and an encouraging bedside manner.
The idea of her nursing him made her smile, but not in an actual useful can-I-get-you-more-water-or-pills way.
She shrugged and turned to leave.
Viktor Lih
Officer of CCDPD
Officer of CCDPD