The door crashed open once more, a room of eyes watched the empty space; awaiting new blood. A moment passed and still the eyes, they waited; yet nothing came. In a darkened corner of the pub, someone chuckled,
“The winds, they blow; the doors, they crash. The people, they stare.”
Sly looked round, attempting to ascertain the origin of the mysterious voice. The voice's owner was short, darkened hair sweeping his eyes, framing his pale face with intrigue. A deep blue scarf trailed around his timid shoulders, stroking gently at his folded arms. In front of him was a small empty bottle, nestled tightly in a stained and creased paper bag.
“When did you come in..” Sly asked, a mildly irritated undertone brushing his voice softly. The room still watched, but now with suspicious eyes. Questioning eyes. Condemning eyes.
The man smiled thinly, shifting uneasily as the stares of the faces enclosed upon him. Slowly and with calculated thought, he breathed deeply, closing his eyes with tired conviction.
“Who would notice a quiet soul pass when such poetry exists elsewhere?” the voice carried through the open space, meandering softly, searching for ears to listen.
Archi looked on confused,
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Simple men must walk the line they write. Only sometimes, the ink is their worst enemy..”
Sly and Archi looked at each other. Raised eyebrows asking silent questions. Kostya sighed, a shake of the head.
“What are you drinking?”
The darkened eyes winked softly; a faint twitch. With a heavy sigh, the man rose and stumbled quietly towards the bar; perching on an empty seat he frowned.
Normality had returned, the chatter continued. The eyes in the room wandered once again.