Werd, Werd, the violinist in the corner of the candlelit hotel restaurant seemed to sing, wherefore artthou ... Werd was alone now, tinyman had been taken away by his entourage. Werd sighed and the crimson rose seemed to sigh and droop on its long stem in the hotel restaurant vase. The shadows flickered, as shadows will when cast by candlelight.
The shadows were long and deep and lovely. The night was cool and outside and Werd was inside, inside, unlike the weather which was outside, and Werd was inside, where the airconditioning and candlelight was. And tinyman was somewhere else, upsatirs perhaps, perhaps in the bus, guarded by those men, those strange men with the tailored suits and dark glasses who tapped on their computers late at night.
And the bartender sighed and Werd hadn't realized it was there or that he was there and decided to pay and leave, to walk out into the night and the weather and the city and to think about things. And so did.
A moon sawed through the underbelly of night, its sickle like the cutlass of a pirate, slicing through the black belly of a whale.
Werd walked past the Alamo and into the wreckage of hotels and pavement immediately beyond. Cars drove by with people who made him nervous. Thus he attempted to circumnavigate and return to the hotel but instead found his way on the wrong side of the Alamo and ended up back in the reiverwalk district. Cops on bicycles gathered and disussed matters and eyed Werd as he stepped off the curb to bypass them, hands thrust in jacket pockets and tie flapping. Eyes down or straight ahead, trying to follow the meandering path of the river below on the city sidewalks above.
This is the way of things, he thought, and that was all he was able to think.