Sometimes, this is what he feels his days have become - simply waiting for the sun to set. He’s at The Boathouse, by the water, tempted to just fall in and sink below the surface. What possibly deters him in the moment is the knowledge that you can’t light a cigarette underwater. So out comes his cigarette and lighter.
He’s had a particularly bad day, and it’s a goddamn feat no one else has suffered because of it. He’s about crush his expended cigarette into the ashtray when he catches a glimpse of a familiar face from the corner of his eye. His lips press into a thin line as he turns his gaze on them like a beam.
“And where do you think you’re going? Sit. Have a cigarette.”