Vincent Stone crouched beside the car. He coughed twice, holding down his dinner, and closed his eyes. He was frozen, alone, scared, his heart pounding through his body. “Oh God,” he whispered. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever felt this way. Vincent Stone was always calm. Vincent Stone was always collected. But now, cool and calm Vincent Stone was crouched next to his car, about to puke up a $300 dinner and piss on his Armani shoes.
He stood up, rocking a little like a man who’d spent the night with Jack Daniels. But Vincent Stone was sober. And unfortunately, he was awake. This was no dream. He tried to take a step, his legs not responding. A marionette with no strings. C’mon. Left, then right, left, right…. He almost threw-up again, bending over, panting white puffs of breath. He took a deep gulp of cold air that bit at his lungs. That’s it. Slow, deep breaths.He shut his eyes, and his face slowly reassembled.
As he walked away from the car, the headlights stretched his shadow ahead of him in a long, dark path, and his senses and thoughts began to return. He stepped onto the old pier that jutted, suspended over the Ocean, and he leaned his forearms on the wooden rail, watching the black water. He liked the ocean. Even in the dark it was reliable. It would always be wet. Always taste salty. And even if it decided to show off by pounding the coast with a storm, one could trust it to be calm again. It was definite. It followed rules. Unlike life. Who’d have guessed that when he woke up this morning, he’d run into this kind of a problem?
His hand buried into the pocket of his long, black overcoat, happening upon his lighter and cigarettes. He pulled them out, hands shaking, following the usual routine of extracting a cigarette and igniting it with the gold lighter. He welcomed the smoke into his lungs and watched snowflakes descend and disappear into the ocean. He blew a stream of smoke into the air and turned to look at his Porsche, the engine purring. Snow fell in the headlights and collected on the dirt road. Occasionally, the intermittent wipers would sweep across the dark windshield, snuffing another generation of snowflakes that had gathered.
To Be Continued
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