Was I left behind? Someone tell me, tell me I survived.
He stood huddled near the entrance doors the Tavern, his chin buried deep into the depths of a warm but damp scarf that was tied loosely around his tattooed neck. The snow just kept coming. It was funny, he thought now as he passed a lit cigarette between his fingers, how this time last year he laughed at the New Yorkers that called this weather "cold." Now Canada - his home - that place was fucking cold. He guessed he was adjusting to life as a New Yorker just fine. Tristan regretted buying the pack of Camel's with every puff he took, creamy, smoke-filled exhales clouding the chilly air and evaporating quickly as the orange ember continued to burn. It had been years, hell, nearly a decade, since he'd smoked last. But something about today made him crave a cigarette.
The tattooed man was still dressed for work - a crisp button down shirt hid underneath his worn corduroy peacoat, and Adam's familiar Italian loafers adorned his feet. He remained in the newsroom well after most had disappeared from their cubicles for home. The first burst of winter weather clouded the glass pane windows that lined the newsroom walls of the New York Times building. It cast the entire space in some kind of fog, eliminating the distraction of staring out into the city, as Tristan so often did, when his face wasn't buried in numbers and words spewed on papers and his computer screen. It was eerie in a way, how one could not easily see out. It made him feel like he was in a city like Vancouver or Seattle, hardly New York. But as the night wore on, the fog would eventually lift, giving way to the usual views the Times building had to offer - of traffic and people down below, street grids and tall buildings next door.
Ben Collins | Fairy | Vinyl