Tom approached me from the Reggae section, where he spent most of his time, sorting, cleaning and re-filing CDs, nodding toward the entrance.  A man adorned in a black trench coat and wearing an impassive look on his face had entered, striding briskly to the used CD section.  Though he had shown no suspicious traits in the two weeks we had noticed his vacant perusal of the used CD sections, we kept tabs and stayed alert.  Various employees (myself included) had inquired if he had needed assistance in finding anything, but he only responded with a brief shake of the head and a forced, tight-lipped smile.  Over the span of two weeks and daily appearances much like the one he exhibited now--rather preoccupied, as if his presence here held ulterior motives--he’d yet to purchase anything.  So, as is the norm, suspicious characters, even if seemingly harmless, got special attention.  I motioned to Darryn to keep an eye on him.   

 

“Ah, seems as though we’re having a two for one sale on freaks today,” said Tom, low cynical whisper barely audible as Skinny Puppy’s garbled electronics bounded out of the speakers, lead singer Ogre sounding like so much ground glass.

 

“What…” but my inquiry died as my eyes caught glimpse of the ‘freak.’  I thought it rude that Tom had decided to phrase it so bluntly, but, in this case, I understood.  I shook my head admonishingly toward Tom; his body language inferred: I know, I know.  He meant no harm by his remark, just a bit of callous humor. 

 

I try not to be prejudiced, try not to categorize others before knowing them.  It’s a good policy when dealing with the continuous roll-call of employees retail work involves, the occasional gem, a rarity amidst the indistinguishable faces.  About a month ago, this person who now entered our store, a customer, had jostled my preconceptions.  He jostled everybody in some way, his presence creating undue discomfort, and stares from employees as well as customers.  Pointing and whispering abounded.  This was his third time in the store on my shift and it never ceased to amaze me how his presence elicited such mass loathing--customers and employees alike steered clear, avoiding eye contact and even close proximity. 

 

As the General Manager of Slingshot Records, CDs, Tapes, Vinyl, DVDs, “A David among corporate Goliaths,” I had to deal with the usual headaches that any General Manager would have to deal with, but I wasn’t complaining.  After nine years of college, shuffling majors like a Vegas Blackjack dealer, five years at Slingshot--a year and a half in charge--had been the most stability I had ever shown in anything.  And since I was in charge, and since I don’t shirk anything, I’d come to the conclusion that assisting this person would probably benefit the rest of the employees, to show, if nothing else, that he was just a customer, someone who might appreciate some help.  After all, as much as his appearance would imply, it’s not as if he wasn’t human.  I guess.   

 

I’ll admit, when first eyeing him, one’s response would veer toward revulsion, and maybe cruel voyeurism.  That is not meant as a rude assessment, it’s meant as an honest evaluation, especially after observing his two previous appearances in the store.  It’s just…there was something so wrong with him.  Let me explain:  He had powerful arms, massive tree trunks that carried the brunt of his weight, braced by muscular fingers like gnarled, aged roots stemming from primordial soil, vice-gripping the aluminum crutches that he utilized for mobility.  That was it for relatively normal, though the disproportionate nature of his arms to the rest of his body actually worked to accentuate the inherent freakishness that hung over him like a caustic, shameless spotlight.  Because, besides the arms, the rest of his body was either mangled or withered in ways that seemed most painful to those who thought themselves normal. His legs dangled limply, like overcooked spaghetti, useless.  A lumpy protuberance, like a rock strewn pier, jutted from between his shoulder blades, ignominiously obscene.  I initially thought him a hunchback, and he may still be, according to medical books or non-specific classification, but the edges and angles, smooth or ragged, led me to believe it was something more.  To corrupt the appearance even further, his tiny, triangular ears, something Picasso would have contemplated before discarding, were oddly askew from each other, the left one fully an inch or more higher on his bony, hairless skull.  Like his back, his face conducted a similar symphony of disrepair, sharp featured, all edge and obtuse definition.  An insignificant, almost lipless mouth, like an excavated thumbtack hole on a vast, empty wall; a wide, flat nose, nostrils flaring and crusted with mucus; and large, anime eyes like simmering coals, awaiting the flame.  He was, maybe, four-feet tall.

 

I’d seen him only those two times before today and yet his every appearance had left such lucid dread imprinted on my corneas and mind alike, as to make me question my motives.  Was I rubbernecking, garnering a closer look at the atrocity? 

 

I glanced toward the register, noticing the uncomfortable contortion addressing the face of our resident Goth, Stacie; a contortion signifying disgust.  I understood her reaction, but tried to put things into perspective: he’s only a customer.  As I approached the register, I tapped the counter and rotated my finger like a propeller, the employees recognizing this as my sign to ‘get to work.’  She snarled at me, starting to raise a finger to her mouth (the universal sign for ‘throwing up’), but I harrumphed, feigning exasperation, and she reluctantly acquiesced.  She stared at me as I crossed her path, shrugging my shoulders, an indication of ‘what?”  But we both knew what.  Everybody knew what. 

 

I was trying to remain composed, but I know everything I was doing was an acknowledgement of his presence…

 

I glanced back, visually tracking the store, before I approached the person, my head filled with a flurry of unwanted analysis, spurred by his mere presence, which, of course, could never be qualified as ‘mere,’ since his ‘presence,’ as noted, elicited so much more as a response, most of it, unwelcome.  Tom, Michael and Darryn, the three employees minding the floor, and Jenn, sitting at her perch, checking in the day’s shipments, went through the motions of working, a badly affected imitation, their collective attention, drifting in my direction.  The many customers, besides a few heartless youths gesticulating perversely, their aloof attention and cruel pantomimes subsiding amidst giggles, seemed intent on either blotting out the intrusion, or, as with the employees, covert surveillance.  The man in the black trench coat, himself an anomaly at this point, twitched nervously, perpetually preoccupied, but caught in the lull and cognizant of situations unfolding.  

 

The object of everybody’s attention stood or, rather, leaned precariously, haphazardly steadying himself with crutches and the ridge of the CD racks.  He had weaved a path along the left side of the store, through Country, Folk, New Age and now into Soundtracks.  I thought he might just be browsing; maybe second thoughts were trying to lead me away, but then I realized that this was a part of the job, and I do not dodge my duties.  So, I thought it best to inquire:  “Can I help you find anything?”

 

He slowly re-arranged himself, like a jigsaw puzzle reconstructing itself into something unfamiliar and turned toward me, a wide-eyed, surprised look on his face.  I got the impression that he is more avoided than assisted, that conversation was not a regular part of his existence.  He confirmed this when he spoke. 

 

“Tubular Bells, this is good?”  It was as if rotting fish and mausoleum dust had been given life, as if gears clattered within his throat; gears rarely used for communication.  I felt it in my head; I felt it in my belly; I thought I was going to be sick, but it passed as soon as he closed his miniscule maw (up close, it was a sickening lipless hole rimmed with wrinkles like spokes around a broken bicycle tire; it resembled a sphincter).  I struggled, found my center, and tried to help him. 

 

“Yes, if you are into that kind of thing.”  I always found it funny when people asked if some disc was good, because, unless they knew me, they had no inkling as to what I was like, my tastes--everyone’s tastes--being subjective.  Nonetheless, it was a question frequently asked (besides similar, eye-squinting brain-implosions such as: “Do you have that song by the woman whose name I don’t remember and the word ‘love’ is in the title?”).  “We file it here because it sells from here, The Exorcist section…” I felt compelled to continue, to point out the import Exorcist Soundtrack, maybe that’s what he wanted, or relay information about Mike Oldfield, the composer, when he abruptly cut me off.

 

“Didn’t fucking ask anything more than if it was any good.”  His retort brought on equally nauseous feelings, and a swiftly mounting sense of unease.  Despite what he had said, he did not say it as if angry.  Maybe lack of communication skills had made him less than socially adept.  I regained something (composure--not too sure about that), and forged on. 

 

“Is there anything specific I can help you find?” Hoping he would say no, but I was not in luck today. 

 

“Excuse my…”  He seemed unsure of himself; like I said, communication seemed foreign ground for him, like he was crawling out of quicksand.  My head swirled, but I was adjusting.  It seemed like he might be adjusting as well.  He attempted a smile, though a sinister undercurrent flowed beneath.  The hideously puckering orifice continued: “Thank you, yes, I need assistance.”  After the crude response before, his politeness seemed out of place.  As he swayed, the musculature of his huge arms flexing like tsunami stricken seas as he adjusted his stance to face me, knotty knuckles in perturbed conference, I had to struggle to conceal a wince.  It seemed even the use of the crutches was not a regular activity. 

 

“I need kQci`vcQkog`ha-ihcQk.”  His voice seemed to crumble like a building being torn down, deconstructing before my ears, reeking all the while.  What I heard could not have been any language of this earth though there were traces of (maybe) Japanese, German, possibly a nondescript African language full of clicks and pops, but more prominent were nuances like the chattering of birds.  I remembered something of Klingon, from a Star Trek convention I’d been dragged to by an ex-girlfriend.  I sensed a leaning toward the work of H. P. Lovecraft, primarily the Cthulhu stories, in which strangely named Gods traversed.  But none of this fully embraced the utterances disgorged from his sphincter-like maw. 

 

Somehow, my mental catalog shuffled to a recent addition, the strange sounding name possibly reminiscent of an item we had just received for the “Dark Ambient/Noise” section.  I wished Cory was here; he ran the section but had been out sick, calling in and sounding more decrepit with every phone call.  I vaguely remember him enthusiastically buying the disc, or a similarly unpronounceable cousin to the disc that this weird person had requested, on the previous Friday…and hadn’t seen him since, his first absences in the three years he’d worked here.     

 

“I believe we have that in our “Dark Ambient/Noise” section over here.”  I started toward the section, striding across the large open space, the weird person eagerly following, hustling as best as his arms would carry him—a spastic, hobbling urgency—his eyes alit with anxious glee, for lack of a better description.  

 

As I entered the aisle in question, my amusement was tickled by so many bands/artists hiding behind so many bizarrely constructed names—a plentiful persuasion of myth, legend, folklore and fantasy (lots of Lovecraftian Cthulhuisms to be found)--I realized that I did not know exactly what I was looking for.  What the hell letter did it start with?  Much spryer than expected, but still with a precarious, leaning tower of Pisa stance, the weird person impatiently entered the aisle.  As he gazed delightedly, his response was enthusiastic. 

 

“Wonderful!  Wonderful!” Ash and blood-stained asphalt, hot tar and singed skin. 

 

My head pulsed, but at least the nausea had passed.  “What was the name of the band you were looking for?” 

 

"kQci`vcQkog`ha-ihcQk.”  Guttural rumbles and cracking sounds, and smells that curled my nostril hairs, flowed like a gray, overcast cloud raining tinfoil and staples from his direction.    

 

“What letter does that start with?”

 

A shadow of exasperation and anger passed over his ebony eyes, and it seemed as though something passed beneath the skin of his face--a visceral current, a snaky slither of muscle.  The eclipsed halo behind the black pupils swirled feverishly.  He said something incomprehensible, a sliver of the indecipherable word itself. 

 

 “X?” I questioned, uncertain of what he had said.

 

Blurting it this time, the incomprehensible letter pierced my eardrums, tympanic membranes in feeble retreat.  Glaciers passed by my head; it began to throb mightily. 

 

Okay, this was getting ridiculous!  I still had no idea what he said, couldn’t remember what Cory had said about the release, or where he had filed it.  Just then, I remembered that, since Cory had not been here since Friday, it was probable that the hand-written cards we posted for new bands, before an actual label was printed up, were still on display.  I immediately caught eye of something that looked like an accident on the alphabet freeway from A to Z, somewhere around K. 

 

“Is this--”

 

I thought he was going to fall over, teetering, reaching with those massive, knobby fingers--it looked like each joint was held together with a bolt--snatching the CD from my tentative grip as I pulled it from behind its card. 

 

He started to espouse obscure information, the most fluid words to stumble from his sphincter-like maw, falling on bewildered ears.  “It’s supposed to bridge the gap between man, dream and myth, concrete realization, inspiring transmutative powers, linking soul and self with familiars from other dimensions, connecting…”  

 

I smiled, happy to have assisted, but in no way understanding what this (really) weird person was babbling about.  Babbling like a brook through a sewer. 

 

"Can I help you with anything else?”  I was prepared to leave, having done my good deed for the day, when his eyes did a dance, chiaroscuro reflections bounding about.

 

“May I have a listen? To make sure it is…correct?”  He seemed both shy and insistent, a strange combination.  And, after his enthusiastic appraisal, it seemed odd that it would matter to hear it now or when he got home.  He obviously had what he was looking for.   

 

“I’m sorry.  We don’t have any customer listening stations at this time.”  We were presently in the process of updating a disastrous, computer-based system that caused more problems than help; actual stations were ordered and on the way.           

 

The weird person awkwardly pointed toward the ceiling, the store drenched in sound, music or, to be more precise, the tedious droning of bad Rap.  I let each employee pick a slot within the six-CD player; inevitably, it meant that I was privy to some pretty rude stuff (‘Indie’ rep meant higher tolerance), hence, Darryn’s current submission.  He always liked to push the boundaries with the Rap crap that I found barely tolerable and, when I actually listened to his latest entry, just plain disgusting. 

 

“I’m sorry, we don’t allow—“

 

But then, through a rapid-fire of misogyny and expletives galore, I changed my mind.  I would do anything to get this disc permanently purged from the store picks, sorely limiting Darryn’s potential to infuriate as he liked to.  I didn’t mind a bit of bite (it’s a part of being ‘Indie’), but a whole mouthful was too much. 

 

“Actually, sure, let’s hear what this is about.”

 

I moved past him, holding my breath, making sure not to touch him--as if touching him might spread some unseemly disease, transforming me into some similarly dysfunctional icon to anarchic flesh and bone--around the end-caps and stealthily toward the CD player behind the register.  I punched the song out and the player open in one motion.

 

Darryn yelled, “Hey,” a sour protest from the back of the store.    

 

Wary eyes looked my way, caught glimpse of what I was doing, and the hideous mobility of the person I was assisting as he dragged his limp legs unsteadily behind him.   

 

“You never let me play anything for the—“

 

“Stacie!” I tersely retorted, barely looking her way as I peeled the cellophane off of the digipak.  She sutured her mouth shut, another one of her expressive personality quirks.  Glancing back, I saw the weird person standing to the side of the register, not in line, tottering in anticipation.  Stacie tried to avert any eye contact, visibly uncomfortable when noticing his closeness.  Tom stood in the Reggae section, hands on hips, watching and waiting.  Some of the customers followed suit, though maybe not as openly impatient….

 

I opened the digipak, a stylish smudge of black and gray decorated with obscurely tinctured colors and undefined objects, curiously engaging.  An odd smell pinched my nostrils; seems this day was full of odd smells and sensations.  I lifted the Rap CD out of the slot and set the unpronounceable CD in its place.  I pressed it closed and track one registered.  Before the music started, I noticed that the person had started mumbling, a kind of chant phrasing crossed with inexplicable vocalizations.  Stacie said she felt queasy, turning from him and crouching.  Thankfully no one was in line.  I motioned to her to use the bathroom if she needed, and the music, after a 33 second delay, erupted from the speakers--

 

--it was a singular tone, swathed in distortion, though I sensed many sonic layers within the manufacturing of the tone, and it cut like a machete into the reality I thought I knew.  The world quivered…everything in terminal shakedown.  Laughter boomed from above me, the roar of the vindicated.  I saw, or at least perceived, that the hobbled stump of a person I had been assisting had, somehow, grown, mutated, transformed into the roaring, exultant demonic beast that towered beside the counter.  It was at least 7, 8 feet tall, a monolith of nebulous strength, continuing to grow, continuing to laugh insidiously with the force of a jet engine.  Its eyes shimmered like the deepest fires of any imagined Hell, its breath choked like the vile stench of every dead thing that had ever been devoured by the worm, its muscles bulged and flexed in a virginal, sweat-doused glow--its presence had me reeling in fear.  Its mouth split like a watermelon, crystalline needles for teeth, stained yellow and caked with soot.  The omnipresent laughter spilled like lava from a yawning volcano. 

 

The world was in flux, in transition.  I saw the humanity degraded by the horrific, abrupt transformation at hand: Tom, Michael, Darryn, Jenn, Stacie (her black mascara running like rivers of decay), customers and all, levitating, transformed into bald, pockmarked heads, with tiny slug-like bodies, fluttering fins like wings but not wings, somehow afloat in the empty space, hideous gill slits where mouths used to be, drooling black grime and yellow pus and, worst of all, the look in the eyes, complete opposite of the demonic beast that still grew even more gigantic before me--now 9, 10 feet and stretching--eyes like empty pools, silver and dull like coins rubbed clean of denomination.   

 

I knew there was life behind the eyes, but right now, it was all a reaction to shock and dismay.  Everybody was succumbing to this travesty of existence, this unexpected mutation of being, except the man in the black trench coat who was screaming something I could not make out amidst the demonic beast’s cackling elation.  His voice traveled through ripples until, finally, they reached the shore of my ear, and I was able, feebly, to make out what he was saying. 

 

“Cease thy detestable sound!” he implored, as best as possible, untransformed but seemingly unable to move from his place. 

 

“Cease thy detestable sound!!”  Again, urgency implored to the limit, me, not knowing what or how to do this and what or how this would affect anything.  But, since he had not been changed, I assumed he had some idea as to what was transpiring.

 

I turned to the CD player and realized that simply turning it off was beyond my present abilities as I bobbed like a buoy.   

 

I glanced at the man in the black trench coat for assistance, but he was immersed in his own struggle, starting to undulate himself, battling against the oncoming transformation.  He seemed to be deep in prayer, or some like-minded quest to avert the preposterous change the rest of us were convulsing to.        

 

Like a light bulb blinking to life above my head, inspired by my observance of the clunky motivation of the others as they fluttered inanely like moths before bright lights, I realized that my ‘body’--this inane floating head-thing--was mobile; and with mobility, I aimed my nose, the pokey stump where it used to be, towards the ‘power’ button of the player.  I tried to swoop down toward it, but the motivation and internal drive were two different things.  Still, I began to drop downwards, like a wavering balloon with a slow leak.  My aim was miserable, and my intentions seemed fruitless, but in my failure, I coasted rather awkwardly into the random button--

 

The store went silent, tremulous instability in sudden repose, time slinked and then the masses ‘popped’ into former human selves, sounding like a crowded afternoon at a shooting range, everyone in a kind of dizzy lull, stumbling, breath held, and standing, all standing, don’t ask me how, all standing and seemingly unharmed, equilibrium regained, and everybody--EVERYBODY--wore a look of quizzical disorientation.  A startled, audible buzz and sigh of confusion coalesced, like the communal hush that befalls a beehive as an intruder approaches, only to be eclipsed as the man in the black trench coat swooshed by the front of the register, brusquely picking up the weird person (demonic beast?) who had, amidst the brief bout of illusory bewilderment, somehow ended up on the floor, flailing like an overturned turtle, his crutches banging hard against the CD racks above him.                           

 

Whatever had just happened had left everyone in a state of uncertainty (Had it happened?  And if it had…what had happened?).  Reality seemed amorphous as the man in the black trench coat spoke to the weird person in a voice melodious and calm, in a language as unknown as the unpronounceable moniker of the artist now resting quietly in the CD player.  Reality completely took shape as Britney Spears’ saccharine vocals filled the store’s speakers with a different kind of dread. 

 

The man in the black trench coat casually aligned the weird person to a skewed, crutch-laden stance, the weird person spitting epithets all the while.  I was only able to make out a sprinkling of harsh words amidst the unearthly utterances, until he looked at me with contempt.

 

“I was almost there, bungling human parasite!”  His eyes still gleamed with hellish fury, but it was swiftly subsiding.  The stench emitting from the sphincter-like maw was of a corrosive caliber nonpareil.  Stacie ran from the register with a, “Look out! I’m gonna spew!” warning that cleared her path towards the bathroom in the back of the store.

 

"Enough, Nathaire, wily wizard!  ‘Tis time to take thy rightful place amidst the recently vacated dungeons of Dimension 46.”  Sun-dappled, dew-coated forests and the freshest peaches imaginable wafted from the man in the black trench coat’s direction as he spoke.  The contrast was immeasurable. 

 

The weird person, Nathaire, rambled on in an anonymous tongue, interjecting a cursory, “Fuck you, less than worm! I accurse your measly existence,” at me, before he fell silent as the man in the black trench coat shushed him.  The weird person, Nathaire, mumbled something, seemed satisfied, forced a smile from his damaged countenance, and headed for the door, to leave.  They both went to leave. 

 

Shaken, I queried:  “What just happened?”

 

The man in the black trench coat turned to me and complied with an explanation that made no sense.  “Fair lad”--fair lad? My eyebrow arched -- “there was a rift within the multitudinous realm of dimensions, by which the familiars of myth, fantasy and fiction reside.  Most of these imagined characters exist as two-dimensional entities whose attributes imperfectly mimic the inspiration that formed them in the first place.  But those of a more insidious nature, as is their wont, and in league with their origins, actually aspire to something more than the transitory roost of nightmares.  Hence, the rare escape is usually but a brief sojourn.”

 

If I understood him correctly, fictional characters existed in other dimensions; a simple, if absurd, assumption.  I started to think that, somehow, within the last few minutes, we had all succumbed to some unexplained mass hallucination or some such incongruity.  I needed to find purchase within the world I (thought) I knew. 

 

“Nathaire,” I said.  “I’ve never heard--“

 

The man in the black trench coat politely interrupted:  “Nathaire is the product of an obscure early 20^th century writer, Clark Ashton Smith, who dabbled in luxurious, exotic worlds, of which Nathaire was a force of capricious talent and sinister intent.”

 

I’d never heard of Clark Ashton Smith.  I was fascinated, nonetheless.  “All fictional characters live in other dimensions?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Why were we changing?”

 

“The unfathomable sounds opened a doorway to another dimension, specifically Dimension 46; in other dimensions, humans are not as they are here, on your earth.”  I digested the information, swallowing hard.

 

“Pardon my rudeness, fair lad, but I must be leaving.” 

 

I smirked, shaking my head.  “Fair lad?  I’m 35-years old.”

 

“The tip of a jewel-crested dagger to a man centuries old,” he said, implying ancient allegiances and deeds that belied his wrinkle-free face. 

 

As he turned to exit, I questioned, frantically, rather abruptly--uncertain of what to ask, wanting to know so much more: “Who are you?”

 

He turned back towards me, a deep, heartfelt smile full of dazzling white teeth, and the smells of a freshly mowed baseball diamond, the essence of which was heightened by the perceived ruffle of a well placed bunt, the skipping flair of the line drive, and bubbles blown from plastic wands held by cheerful, carefree children.  “Bond.  James Bond.” 

 

I stammered, incredulous:  “J-James Bond! The James Bond!” 

 

He laughed, the sound of roses blooming, if there was such a sound, a smell like happy puppies.  “I jest, my friend.  I am simply a guardian of the dimensions, nothing more.”

 

“Jesus!”  I said, flabbergasted, too much unverified data filtering through my head, too many questions flooding my brain. 

 

“Dimension 5,” he said.

 

“What?”  Now I was completely lost.

 

“Jesus, you inquired…”

 

My eyes went round as saucers.  His implication was crystal clear… The influx of mysterious data made me woozy.  I closed my eyes, inhaling deeply.  I had more to ask, more to know, but upon opening my eyes, the man in the black trench coat and the weird person, Nathaire, were gone.  Were they ever really there?

 

I disrupted Ms. Spears’ incorrigible caterwauling and punched eject on the CD player.  Rotating the discs, one of the slots was empty.  And the digipak was nowhere to be found.  I started to laugh.  What had happened--mass hysteria?  Had everybody experienced this glitch in reality?  I turned unsteadily toward the store, relieved, but nobody else seemed to have gotten it yet; they still looked a bit tepid.  I turned back to the 6-CD player and was about to return it to play mode, when I caught a reflection of something at the edge of one of the CDs.  I picked up the CD and flipped it over, using it as a woman would a compact, as a mirror. 

 

I remembered what the weird person, Nathaire, had said as he was lead out:  “I accurse your measly existence.”  I remembered the weird person, Nathaire, mumbling something--a curse or spell?--and seeming quite satisfied thereafter.  I remembered this now, because as my laughter subsided, I saw that same deformed, lipless sphincter of a mouth below my broad, filth-encrusted nostrils.  And the eyes that stared back at me, large and full of devious joy, were not my own.  They belonged to another.

 

“What’s going on, Brian?”  Tom had made way to the front counter.

 

“Look at me, I’m a…freak!” 

 

He studied me with wary disdain.  “I-I don’t know what just happened, but I gotta get a smoke.”  He seemed indifferent to my repugnant transformation.  I glanced back to the CD, surprised to see my face--my face!--back and normal.  Stacie wandered back to her station behind the register.  A few dazed customers walked listlessly toward her.

 

I started to laugh again.  “Yeah.  Yeah, I’ll join you.”

 

“You don’t smoke,” he said, as something passed beneath the skin of his face--a visceral current, a snaky slither of muscle… I stared hard at him.

 

“What?”  He asked, visibly perturbed.

 

“Nothing,” I said, stepping out for a breath of fresh air.