Thomas watched the smoke curl up from Francis' cigarette, it hung in the air before dissolving, then the action was repeated by another thin wisp of smoke as he exhaled.
They were meeting for lunch in a small tavern, outside in the bright full sunlight that made him feel uncomfortable, tired, and overly warm.
He was starting to wonder just how badly he had hurt his leg, he had fallen and since then it had been a constant ache. He sipped his warm beer, his stomach turning as he thought of slipping in the warm blood, the sticky mess it made when he found the heart on his front step. He could still feel the congealed blood clinging to his hands, he started to sweat thinking about it.
Connor and Francis were exchanging polite versions of their stories, carefully edited of information,
