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BackdatedEars to the ground, Elliot had said. Socialise, Every had said. Bjørn, on the other hand, scowled. Participating—as a concept—should not have been this daunting. It was the samaritan nature of the event that had convinced him, but he’d need more convincing. He considered his other reasons for attending. If there was one place to get information, it would be a soup kitchen frequented by those who witnessed Harper Rock at all hours. If there was any gossip to be overhead it’d be in a makeshift mess hall.
Paralysed by discomfort, Bjørn watched from the opposite sidewalk as people gathered about the doors. Some disappeared inside, others huddled in search of a drag. The crisp scent of fresh snow did little to dampen the stench of cigarette wafting from across the road. He tugged on his scarf until it tightly covered his mouth, and then stopped breathing altogether. The wool made for a great scapegoat to explain the absence of clouded breath in this temperature. There was no one watching him, but his anxiety made him hyperaware.
His aversion to crowds and sensory sensitivity rendered all interactions into potential landmine fields. It baffled him that he’d even consider jumping back in so rashly, let alone amongst strangers and with no idea what awaited him. His experience with soup kitchens was next to none; charity had always been a personal and far less organised affair with the Sølbergs. He huffed, growing increasingly irritated at himself. If high stakes was what he was after, then the Mayor’s ball would have been the grander choice.
The longer he stood, the stupider it became. Bjørn shifted his weight back and forth from one leg to the other, restless. Eventually he’d have to make a decision. Luckily, the decision was made for him. The doors opened as two people stepped out, and the swell of cacophonous conversation and music that accompanied them trigger flight mode. His thoughts caught up with him as he turned the corner, his scowl a permanent fixture for the rest of the night.
Paralysed by discomfort, Bjørn watched from the opposite sidewalk as people gathered about the doors. Some disappeared inside, others huddled in search of a drag. The crisp scent of fresh snow did little to dampen the stench of cigarette wafting from across the road. He tugged on his scarf until it tightly covered his mouth, and then stopped breathing altogether. The wool made for a great scapegoat to explain the absence of clouded breath in this temperature. There was no one watching him, but his anxiety made him hyperaware.
His aversion to crowds and sensory sensitivity rendered all interactions into potential landmine fields. It baffled him that he’d even consider jumping back in so rashly, let alone amongst strangers and with no idea what awaited him. His experience with soup kitchens was next to none; charity had always been a personal and far less organised affair with the Sølbergs. He huffed, growing increasingly irritated at himself. If high stakes was what he was after, then the Mayor’s ball would have been the grander choice.
The longer he stood, the stupider it became. Bjørn shifted his weight back and forth from one leg to the other, restless. Eventually he’d have to make a decision. Luckily, the decision was made for him. The doors opened as two people stepped out, and the swell of cacophonous conversation and music that accompanied them trigger flight mode. His thoughts caught up with him as he turned the corner, his scowl a permanent fixture for the rest of the night.
