[color=B2ACA9][center][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019bad46-8841-70ef-9616-c7334ca47101.webp[/img]

[color=BC8F8F]______________________________________________________________________________________[/color]

[table][row][cell][img]https://64.media.tumblr.com/98155e6008fe41281969e8a7ca5f63df/6b47d898ae0d001c-2d/s540x810/5c18c33dcdeab1bf27ba445e73a9d1eda8e93c40.gif[/img][/cell] [cell][sub][color=BCA68F][i]can life be a still dream?
or do i have to watch myself
ruin the brushstroke
let the paint smear
on my face?[/i][/color][/sub][/cell][/row][/table]

[right][sub][color=BCA68F]Location: Clark's General
Interactions: Lee [@SonnetNSunbeam]
Mention: Theresa [@Fabricant451][/color][/sub][/right]

[color=BC8F8F]______________________________________________________________________________________[/color][/center]

[indent]Sometimes people make decisions before giving the thought a thorough once over. Why did he need to go to Clark's before heading to his own shop? Maybe it the body knows better than a frazzled mind scrambled over hot asphalt and humid air that made his chest feel heavy when he breathed, like it filled too much with moisture and not enough with air. It made sense, knowing his eyes lingered on the old fridge box, transparent so that, even with the power off and the light gone, he could see the sweat condense over Coke bottles that still held onto that cold, cold manufactured air.

Sylvester licked his lips, a gesture he didn't mean to care over when his eyes fell onto Lee who wasn't a good deal shorter than him, just the two inches, but his eyes fell further to the sudden flop of shirt that fanned air against skin. He immediately shut his eyes, as if to block the sudden pierce of thought that flooded his mind. Sweat. Damp skin. Hot air. He swallowed shame down his throat and stumbled over words that barely formed a coherent sentence, "[color=BC8F8F]Just needed the hot to uh, sorry. Cold. I needed something cold before I, y'know...[/color]" He tried to brush the awkwardness off with a smile knowing how strained it looked.

A fact of life that Silvester knew even small, holding tight to his mother's hand like a lifeline, was that luck had a way of snowballing one way or the other. Maybe life was inherently Sisyphean. Up the hill; an accomplishment. Down the hill; a tragedy.

He turned toward the box of drinks far too quickly to be normal, quickly opening, grabbing a soda, and closing the display case as fast as he could to keep the still cold air from escaping. When he pulled up to the cash register, he took Lee in again, knowing they'd not often crossed paths. To be fair, this was likely the most common point of interaction on both ends, though Silvester frequented Clark's more often than anyone in this town, besides the older folk, frequented his antique shop.

"[color=BC8F8F]Actually I do have a used futon I've been trying to sell for a few months now. At this point, I'm content to just give it to my daughter should she find her own place, but then that'd be admitting to something I'm not quite ready to admit to,[/color]" Silvester let the awkwardness from earlier slip away, content to the idol talk of every day to melt into, "[color=BC8F8F]How much are you offering? I'll knock a bit off the price since you were kind enough to let me in despite...[/color]" he tilted his head toward the door just in time to catch another person staring behind hit.

He opened his mouth to say something, though the call out quickly made him purse his lips. "[color=BC8F8F]Here, I was going to ask after your mother, but I suppose you'll probably be busy now?[/color]" Silvester dropped the exact amount on the counter, shuffling his feet as he peered over toward the woman at the door. There was something he'd recognized of her, but couldn't quite place, like she shared the face of someone familiar to him but like Lee did, though Silvester supposed that was different having known the man for a majority of his life. Another shiver of shame slid down his spine, to which Silvester bowed his head to stare and contemplate the shoe worn flooring marked with lines and skid marks that begged his attention. Or rather that he forced his attention toward.[/indent][/color]