He turned his upper body towards him, propping his right elbow onto the backrest of the bench and the other onto the table. Don Juan's sharp knees pressed against the side of his thigh. Maybe—that seemed to be his word of the night, or his mode of being. Neither here nor there.
"I am here," he noted. Perhaps his question was meant as a challenge; the defensive tone did not translate well over the shudder that gripped Don Juan while he spoke. "So yes, I am running after you." He lowered his head towards him while he said it, as if they were exchanging something secretive. The red dot of the cigarette glowed between them.
He sensed that Don Juan wanted to be taken off the edge of his indecision. Perhaps the hope of being found, and then being taken away, was exactly why he came here tonight. He could do that. Would he meet resistance? Only enough to relieve Don Juan's conscience. But after the waiting, the not knowing, he thought that would make it a bit too easy on him. Because he had been miserable, too.
Sam put just a bit of tension in his leg, a bit of pressure against their point of contact. The vial was in his pocket. It would take Don Juan's pain away in an instant. Sometimes he hated this substance—not now; now it felt like a smooth layer on his skin that protected him against Don Juan's shivering suffering.
"I am here," he noted. Perhaps his question was meant as a challenge; the defensive tone did not translate well over the shudder that gripped Don Juan while he spoke. "So yes, I am running after you." He lowered his head towards him while he said it, as if they were exchanging something secretive. The red dot of the cigarette glowed between them.
He sensed that Don Juan wanted to be taken off the edge of his indecision. Perhaps the hope of being found, and then being taken away, was exactly why he came here tonight. He could do that. Would he meet resistance? Only enough to relieve Don Juan's conscience. But after the waiting, the not knowing, he thought that would make it a bit too easy on him. Because he had been miserable, too.
Sam put just a bit of tension in his leg, a bit of pressure against their point of contact. The vial was in his pocket. It would take Don Juan's pain away in an instant. Sometimes he hated this substance—not now; now it felt like a smooth layer on his skin that protected him against Don Juan's shivering suffering.