Ariadne and Harmon resumed their stolid silence after their conversation for a brief moment until a look of swelling curiosity overtook the woman’s face. She turned, to stare at the man, her bob-cut locks flapping like the wings of a crow, dark eyes piercing his soma as a surgeon’s blade the flesh of a cadaver.
“I told you a little something about me, aren’t you going to tell me about yourself?”
“Nothing much to tell.”
“Tit for tat.”
“Don’t have no tats.”
“I gave the tat. You’re to give the tit.”
“Think you’re better equipped to fullfil that demand.”
She rolled her eyes at the raillery, smiling despite an overt show of disapproval. Shortly, Harmon held up his hands in acquiescence.
“Alright. I used to work construction. Roofing mainly. Got to taking my writing serious and decided I’d try publishing a book. Lynder offered. Seemed foolish to refuse.”
“Is that why you moved, to get closer to the art world?”
“I thought not; you strike me more Abbaye de Créteil than Neo-Pop.”
“Nothing there for me.”
“No friends that stayed around. No family above the ground.”