(no subject)

[equivocal-miles.livejournal.com]

Sleep having abandoned him at an entirely unfair hour, Miles is in the bar, seated at a table far enough from the main thoroughfares to allow for a slightly reduced chance that it will be jostled by random passersby. He is playing with toy soldiers in the self-conscious way that a man of thirty tends to reclaim a childhood hobby: sheepish but resolute. It is not playing, it is modeling.

He is modeling a ground assault on his otherwise untouched wine bottle.