It was after hours. It was after hours at work but it was still after hours. Toby loved this time — when he could get it. The annex was nice and cool and dim and still. His small lamp cast it's soft glow onto the last of his paperwork. Tonight would be a good night, Toby thought. The air is full and thick with cool water; a rich heaviness that calls for a coat. No Jim, No Michael. They were never with him at night. When he walked, when he read, none of them were with him. Only when he drank from his clean glass was Pam with him. His breath was smoky and sweet and she was always with him then.
None of them knew him. He barely knew himself. My ex-wife thinks she knows me, he chuckled as he put on his tan barn jacket. Large side pockets kept his hand warm and dangerous by his sides. He walked the calm blocks to his apartment. Imagine if sidewalks were made of wood, Toby thought. If all the world were like a Bunker Hill crime scene, tall and thin and swaying in the wind. A gun always quick to pull when the action began.
There's never a case for Toby, he breathed out as he turned his favorite corner two blocks from home. But there's always a chance of danger springing from the unkempt hedges, he thought. He walked the tiled steps to his second floor apartment. No one was with him now.
But it was night and soon there would be Pam and a drink. But it was always another man's gun and another man's story.
Toby loved to walk. And he always looked in the shadows.