There the two men sit, the older and the younger, though the generational gap between them seems bridged by the dimness of the room they smoke and murmur in. She knows to bring coffee soon after midnight before excusing herself to bed. She smiles and says almost nothing. Later, She lays alone amongst cool sheets and the shiver of candlelight on polished wood and emits small, sharp curses into the bedroom like a nocturnal echolocator.
The fellows down the hall are unaware of the annoyance they cause. They mean no harm in their recondite dealings and abstruse musings. The younger man tries not to wrinkle his nose at the fragrance which was so apparent as She cut through the smoke in the den like a well built icebreaker, and which now struggles to dissipate into the room's foggy atmosphere. She makes that perfume from patchouli oil and potpourri says the older man. The younger man replies with a nod and a lifted brow and the corners of his mouth downturned as if to say imagine that.