Johnny watched her play with her cigarette and wait for someone to offer a light, and he had that smug look on his face when she touched his hand with both of hers as he offered. Predictable, predictable. He watched her as she sipped her shiraz and he asked her if she liked port, and of course she did, and when he asked her she kind of half smiled at him, so he told her all the bands she listened to while he picked the polish off of his nails. He reached into his pocket and he pulled out a tranquilizer when she wasn't looking and he slipped it into his mouth after toying with it for a bit, and he washed it down with spit so she wouldn't notice anything but a somewhat nervous gulp, one that she would attribute to some sort of magnetism or affliction similar to sweaty palms. Johnny checked his watch and he sang the same songs in his head that he always had as he waited for the half hour to slide by, and it slid by, the hands of his watch almost fluid they were so real, and he debated telling her about her favorite movies and her favorite books and about everything else that she didn't know that he knew that she'd take to a deserted island if she had to go, but instead he settled on her Spanish. When her phone rang, he left, heading for the car in the parking deck, knowing (or at least hoping) that the closed doors meant encapsulation and isolation from the tiresome redundancy of them all.
They’re all the same, anyway, and they're no better than the walking dead; too deaf, too dumb, and too blind to realize that they've been finished forever, since long before they had ever even begun.

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