"Not often, necessarily. But this is the first mug he's thrown at my head that hasn't been ceramic, if that tells you anything." He picked apart the paper gingerly, speaking as the message unfolded itself from the little symbol. If he was as prone to poetic metaphor as the man who'd lobbed the item in question, he would've found something very profound in that.


Trite:

Time to have a talk, man to "man." Meet me in M50 after the lights go out, and make sure to leave your boyfriend at home.

But try to remember my flashlight. Not all of us like playing the fool stumbling about in the dark.

Godot


The letter received a quick scan (man to "man"? what does he think I actually am, a fish?) before he tucked it facedown under his tray. A 'talk.' He tried to interpret the words as charitably as possible - maybe he did just want to get on the same page - but at the same time he knew that there was no way he was going to M50 tonight unarmed. He remembered very well how the last nocturnal, secret meeting Godot had been involved in had turned out, and while he wanted to believe it could never come to that . . .

Well. He couldn't really afford to take those risks, right now.

"It's just - he has this grudge against me for something that's not actually my fault. You know how it is." For all the confidence in his words, his face didn't match, shifting through a broad spectrum of uncertainty. "I think he'll come around, though."