A lithe man in a blue denim jacket and jeans leaned against one corner of the library, one leg crossed over the other and tucked into the brick wall behind him, veiny fingers flipping through a small black poster book.
On occasion he took a glance towards his left wrist, where sat a small silver watch, digital hands ticking away.

Appearing to be in his mid thirties or so, he seemed somewhat out of place in position and posture, almost as though his brain had faltered, and he was now caught in his years of loitering adolescence.
On the sidewalk ahead of him was a bus stop sign, suggesting that this was what he was waiting for, but anyone who knew the bus routes around here would know that no bus would come this way today.
Despite this, the small library's meager parking lot was markedly empty; not many folks caring to head out this day.

Beads of sweat licked the back of his neck, but otherwise the man seemed fairly unfazed by the mid-morning heat, perfectly at ease with only half of his body in the shadow of the building, and the other half burning up in the light bouncing off the concrete.
With the temperatures as hot as they were now, it was likely that a heatwave would soon be rolling through the town.

At the sound of heavy doors drawing outwards, the man glanced up from his magazine, ruddy eyes following the footsteps of a dark man with pale dreadlocks.
His gaze wasn't all too subtle, although it wouldn't be noticeable should the other man not give any glance his way.
His head didn't move, but his observance of the dreadlocked man did not waver.

With little else than a passing glance, the other man turned away and began to move off.
Rolling up the black book and sliding it into his back pocket, the man in denim set his foot down and stood up straight, watching as the distance between them lengthened.

Fingers slid into the breast pocket of the shirt behind his blue jacket, flipping out a pair of narrow aviator sunglasses; sliding the lenses up over his nose and letting one hand fall halfway into a pocket, his legs began to move, boot heels clicking on the sidewalk as he trailed after the man with dreadlocks.

When the black man began to slow, so did his follower; another glance was given to his wristwatch, the man pausing for a brief moment as he seemed to adjust his sunglasses.
With the other man looking around as he was, only one long turn of his head would mean that he might spot the denim man, the morning sun casting long shadows behind the both of them.

The man seemed unfazed at having been spotted, busy fiddling with his sunglasses, looking altogether just suspicious enough before the man in dreadlocks finally turned and continued on his way.
After a moment, the man in denim did so, as well.

As the dark-skinned man disappeared into the post office, the paler man leaned against the building's corner as he had been at the library, although this time he did not pull out his shiny book.
The fingers tucked into one of his pockets slipped deeper down.
His chin tilted up slightly as he stared sidelong at the rising sun through his shades, watching in his peripheral as, after a few moments, the dreadlocked man returned to the outside heat.

Seen yet again, the man with dreadlocks took up a peculiar stance, suggesting that he was preparing to either fight or run away.
As a statement and query were directed forward, the man in denim lowered his gaze to the other man's own.

For a while, the man in question was silent.
Leaning casually against the wall, it would almost seem as though he intended not to answer at all, staring stolidly in a manner that, although it revealed nothing of his intentions, could be construed as something of a threat.

Finally, he began to withdraw a cardboard box halfway from his pocket.
It was small and white with red lettering upon it; its lid was already popped, and from it he slid a narrow cylinder with a single tan ring near one of its ends.

He held the cigarette out to the man with dreadlocks and said, "Got a light?"

The man offered a sigh at the dreadlocked man's response, the man in denim's own stance seeming to finally relax.
He slid the cigarette back into the box with a grumble of, "No one ever does."

Pushing the box back down into his pocket, he lowered his foot to the ground, standing straight with the same fingers back in the same pocket.
Giving a careless shrug, a cheeky grin spread across the strange man's lips as he admitted, "Thought you might have found that charming, really."
The black man certainly didn't appear charmed at all, though the man in denim now seemed unperturbed by his defensive posture; in fact, he almost seemed pleased by the annoyed reaction that crossed the other's face.

Allowing a brief moment of silence to pass between them, he would raise one of his hands, spinning a finger in the air.
"Why don't you fly away?"

The man adjusted his sunglasses as he appeared to offer up a double-take towards the man in dreadlocks, his face, for a brief moment at least, taking on an exasperated, nearly confused expression in its own right, as if he just couldn't believe what he was hearing.

After yet another pause, probably tinkering with his own trailing thoughts, the man finally said, "Boy, you must be as dumb as bricks.
I NEVER talk to the wrong people."

A finger went up to his shades, pulling them down just enough so that he might look at the other man more directly through narrow eyes the color of caked mud and hardened clay, as though that would make the dreadlocked man's apparent dumbfoundedness anymore believable.
It didn't, so of course he simply pushed the sunglasses back up.

"But you know what?" the man in denim continued, finally beginning to turn away with a shrug.
"Perhaps you're right: the ticket to flight IS expensive, isn't it?
Think fast--!"

In an instant, the man had pulled out the black magazine he'd been carrying with him all this time, the rolled-up mass of slick paper flung out like a dart straight for the other man's face.
He did it in such a way that he almost appeared to trip in the toss, although he quickly caught himself before his face managed to hit concrete.

Though he might have seemed preoccupied on his falling, his eyes watched the dark man as he caught the magazine.
As his other leg began to swing around to catch his own body, he instead found himself being caught by the other man.

He hadn't even noticed the other man make the move; one moment he was catching the magazine, the next he was catching the falling man.
A smile spread wide upon his features as he was helped up, the man in denim telling the other, "Why, I thank ya kindly there."

Should the other man remain in proximity for long enough, the man in denim would lift one of his hands and pat the stranger across the back -- the palm would be firm, perhaps even a little hard, but nothing that would offer up anything but a moment's discomfort.

Given the chance, he would begin to brush his denim straight, before saying to the dark stranger: "Why don't-cha keep that magazine there?
Be my thanks for catchin' me.
Heck, it might even help ya find some good deals on flyin'."

He wouldn't give the stranger much of a chance to protest, already waving a limp hand in the air in lackadaisical goodbye.
Regardless of what the man with dreadlocks did or said, so long as it was nothing physically direct upon the man in denim, he would proceed to walk back the way he had come, seemingly ignorant now of the man he'd previously been trailing.
Only the hum of his goodbye would be left behind him: "Happy trails, friend."

Should the man with dreadlocks take a moment to examine the magazine, whose front cover was oddly blank, though the inner sheath was decked out in advertisements, he'd find many an article on airplanes, the flight industry; everything from commercial airliners hiking both prices and security measures, to the apparent increase in disasters befalling airplanes and the reports following suit.
There were even pages of coupons stapled in alongside the articles and images.
It seemed, all in all, a perfectly normal magazine.