A lanky form made his way down the street, a fashion magazine in hand. He flipped through the pages idly, his eyes half closed in disinterest. His right hand reached up from the pages to straighten his tie as the wind whipped it around restlessly. Reaching up, he ran gossamer fingers through raven hair, sighing discontentedly. It didn't make sense anymore. The pads of his fingers ruffled through the glossy leaflets, frowning at all the subliminal messages that one simply photo could send through a young child's mind if the parents weren't careful or didn't care enough. The councilor instincts still hadn't left him, even after 3 lonesome years of dissonance. He had retired himself to be an artist, painting his feelings of desolation many times, over and over again in endless repetition. Rolling the publication, he put it under his arm and pushed his way through the revolving door that lead into his art studio's building.
He nodded curtly to the secretaries, avoiding their love-stricken eyes as he made his way to the elevators. His office, his studio, was on the fifteenth floor and he had to sit through knee-high amounts of mush to get there. Sighing discontentedly as the doors finally shut, he leaned back against the far wall, admiring the silver trimmings the building's owner decided to add. His studio had been left alone, per his request, but he had been funded the money for any renovations he desired. His back straightened as the elevator stopped, indicating another passenger. His muscles tensed as a tall man walked in, his hands behind his back as usual and ego written all over his facial features.
"Morning, Dwicky." Came his deep voice. The smaller man nodded, reopening the magazine he had been reading earlier. "Isn't it a little early for you to be at work?" He leaned a little closer to the shorter man, his intentions clear as always.
"I wanted to get to work on my newest painting right away, before the inspiration left me, Elliot." Dwicky replied, his muscles stiff with apprehension. Elliot often made very clear his intentions. He wanted the retired councilor in bed. With the man's looks, he didn't blame every woman in the building to wantonly swoon over the well-built man. But he didn't swing that way. He much preferred the pleasures of a woman over the domination of a man.
As Elliot's mouth opened to reply to Dwicky's remark, a cell phone rang. Dwicky, thanking whoever was calling, picked up his cell, his brown eyes glancing down to the caller Id.
His breath caught in his throat.
Membrane, Dib. Cell.