Summer 81, 512
Victor smiled at the man who passed the steaming tea to him, gladly exchanging a pair of silver-rimmed pieces from his pocket. The cup and its dish reminded him of home, the delicate courtesy implied in choosing them despite that they were his only choice. His hands hated the subtlety, but his mind looked forward to the company it attracted. Scooping them both from the bar, he turned to the room in search of a table—preferably one already occupied by an interesting face.
There were a surprising number of people sitting alone, many engrossed in some book or stack of papers. As he considered his choices, he lifted the hot drink to try a preemptory taste.
And then his face twisted into a caricature of disgust. He had been prepared to endure the scalding water, but he could not have guessed that something as unassuming as tea would taste so much like salt and weeds and vomit. He spat the swill discreetly back into his cup and lowered it to his side. With a short glance around, he turned on his heel and stepped back to the bar.
The man who had served him was busy with some other person when Victor tried to return his drink. He was waiting patiently for his attention, priming whatever complaint might have been most effective in getting his money back, when the edge of his eye noticed the glint of coin in the firelight. He turned his head and, sure enough, saw two silver pieces waiting a few feet to his right, left by a customer who could not wait.
It was as good a refund as any.
Sliding a hand across the countertop, he abandoned his tea where he had set it and moved lazily toward the coins. As he passed them, his hand moved over them and into his pocket. He scanned the room for as many seconds as he dared and, when he saw that no one seemed to notice, walked across the floor and chose an occupied table at random.
“Come here often?” He asked whoever happened to be sitting opposite. Even as he laced his fingers on the table and offered a kind smile, his eyes wandered over the Rest’s interior.
It was too easy, he thought, and wondered if he could do it again.
There were a surprising number of people sitting alone, many engrossed in some book or stack of papers. As he considered his choices, he lifted the hot drink to try a preemptory taste.
And then his face twisted into a caricature of disgust. He had been prepared to endure the scalding water, but he could not have guessed that something as unassuming as tea would taste so much like salt and weeds and vomit. He spat the swill discreetly back into his cup and lowered it to his side. With a short glance around, he turned on his heel and stepped back to the bar.
The man who had served him was busy with some other person when Victor tried to return his drink. He was waiting patiently for his attention, priming whatever complaint might have been most effective in getting his money back, when the edge of his eye noticed the glint of coin in the firelight. He turned his head and, sure enough, saw two silver pieces waiting a few feet to his right, left by a customer who could not wait.
It was as good a refund as any.
Sliding a hand across the countertop, he abandoned his tea where he had set it and moved lazily toward the coins. As he passed them, his hand moved over them and into his pocket. He scanned the room for as many seconds as he dared and, when he saw that no one seemed to notice, walked across the floor and chose an occupied table at random.
“Come here often?” He asked whoever happened to be sitting opposite. Even as he laced his fingers on the table and offered a kind smile, his eyes wandered over the Rest’s interior.
It was too easy, he thought, and wondered if he could do it again.
