Time: 10 minutes
Source Photo: No smoking in this entrance
I find Carver sucking on a B&H in a side door of Debenhams. He's wearing that cheap gray suit he bought when he started the job there, complete with shiny plastic name badge on the left lapel.
"You find it very amusing, I imagine. Ironic, I dare say." I leave out humor and grunt the words in the way that makes him wobble. He startles like a dog that's pissing on a thorn bush when you kick its other leg out from under it. He gathers his wit -- I don't think the plural form applies to Carver -- and makes as if to smile. Then he takes another look at the shape of my countenance and settles on a perplexed idiot look instead. Fitting.
"Uh, what's that, Birr?" says he. "I don't follow."
"You don't follow, eh, Carvy? Why am I not surprised. You don't exactly follow a great deal of things, do you? Take, for example, them words posted on the placard above your head. Did it cross your mind to follow them?" He turns about and acts all surprised to see the No smoking in this entrance sign. As though he hadn't seen and ignored it five times a day for the past two weeks.
"Sorry, Birr. Didn't think you'd be the sort to mind a little... infraction like that." He drops the stub and does a little toe twist on it -- dance-like, almost. Beside it are another dozen or so fag-ends and an array of chewing gum spots.
"I mind, Carvy, my dense little friend, because you're not to be doing anything to draw attention to yourself, and if the Old Bill comes along here and sees you holed up comfortable, below that particular notice, with your mouth full of smoking gun, he may not appreciate the irony in quite the same way as you or me."
(about my timed writing exercises)
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