Travis took a deep breath. His hands were starting to sweat. Trickles of perspiration dewed his thick polo shirt, like strings of peals squeezed reluctantly from the mouth of a shy clam. He looked down to consider his shoes – Converse, scuffed, just the right amount to tell people that he cared enough about fashion, but that he didn’t take it too seriously. There was a fine line between try-hard and nonchalant laidback-cool after all. He'd considered Doc Martens, but he didn’t want to look like he was trying to be an Indie or anything.
He reached down into his bag (khaki green, shoulder strap, no brand – he didn’t want to look like a brand pony), and rummaged for a packet of cigarettes (Malboro; some brands mattered. Pack brands mattered a lot) and a light (Zippo – none of those cheap, plastic kiddie supermarket lighters for him. A Zippo said that THIS was a serious addiction. That he didn’t care about things like cancer or emphys
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