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2015-11-06 02:42 pm (UTC)
Yeah, Lafayette strikes memory better than Humboldt. If Moritz was thinking more clearly - if his autopilot was working a little better, even - he'd have remembered to say that Holland is part of Allen County, specifically that it's near Scottsville (which is the only incorporated town
Allen County). But his mind is buzzing, a high-pitched warning that exists only between his ears. He wishes, for the first time, that he was every bit as invisible as he
, that this man with the familiar accent would stop talking to him.
Moritz looks down when there's an absence of words back to him, no answer for his question, wondering if it means he can hightail it across the street during the last seconds of the light indicating it's okay to cross. Instead he has to double-take to process the visual information, halfway through a pathetic "Well it was nice talkin'--" Because the stranger's head is bent down and his upper half waves, leans, as if he might be sick or faint. Moritz is given a small flash of insight to a career fair he'd been dragged to in senior year, of the EMTs that had seemed so oddly-entrancing and yet which he'd been ushered away from on account of it requiring 'too strong a stomach' for him. The wasted possible usefulness of himself releases a spike of self-hatred, more potent than the vodka in his belly, and Moritz takes a half-step towards the man on guilty instinct. He looks wholly uncomfortable to close the gap at all, reluctant but transfixed.
(He's useless. Should he even try? Is it possible to ever be useful again when he's starting from so low?)
There's a pause, a long awkward pause, long enough that it's very possible Moritz interrupts the stranger trying to start up a conversation again. "Y'alright, sir?" Nervous tic - Moritz frowns, because it's obvious this guy is about his age, but the words spit themselves out before he can stop them. He shifts and fidgets, guilt written plain across his face, and fixates on the dented cigarette case in the stranger's breast pocket.
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