Anyone who has shaken Hawksley's hand -- and in this instance, everyone has -- knows that what callouses he has are thin, light things. The activities of his fingers involve page-turning, primarily, not hammering stakes into the ground or stringing wire. He has done manual labor in his life, but by god, that was punishment. Why someone would choose to build a fence when there are plenty of people one could hire to do that sort of thing... why, it boggles the mind.
But he drives a Porsche. That he has never worked a day in his life has not seemed to affect the quality of that life, at least not in the material sense.
--
These things have trunks. They are not large. They are a pocket where you put A Suitcase or Two Bags of Something, in this case ... groceries? He didn't ask when Sera put the bags in. He doesn't ask -- well wait, no, of course he does. After he gets out of the car as well, pocketing the keys.
Is he wearing aviators? Of course. Are his khakis straight-legged and just a bit skinny and rolled up at the cuffs to bare his ankles? Naturally. Light blue -- what are those? Loafers? Boat shoes? A strange amalgam of both? They have laces, whatever. His t-shirt is tissue-thin, with brown and burnt orange in thick horizontal stripes. Hawksley takes one of the bags, if Sera is willing to share, and heads in a step or two behind Sera.
Sera zeroes in on Grace. Hawksley's eyes run up Justin's back from lumbar to cervical spine like a finger dragging across skin. "Excuse her," he says to them, or perhaps just Justin: "she's gone Puritan. Too much clean living."
He gives Shoshannah an upward nod, a nonverbal hey, and sets a bag down, and pushes his aviators up and grabs some counter, swinging himself up to sit on the edge, long legs dangling down. He leans over to peer into the bags Sera had him trafficking, but he's talking to Justin while he does so. You can tell, because he starts with:
"Justin, when you have a minute, we should talk."
But he drives a Porsche. That he has never worked a day in his life has not seemed to affect the quality of that life, at least not in the material sense.
--
These things have trunks. They are not large. They are a pocket where you put A Suitcase or Two Bags of Something, in this case ... groceries? He didn't ask when Sera put the bags in. He doesn't ask -- well wait, no, of course he does. After he gets out of the car as well, pocketing the keys.
Is he wearing aviators? Of course. Are his khakis straight-legged and just a bit skinny and rolled up at the cuffs to bare his ankles? Naturally. Light blue -- what are those? Loafers? Boat shoes? A strange amalgam of both? They have laces, whatever. His t-shirt is tissue-thin, with brown and burnt orange in thick horizontal stripes. Hawksley takes one of the bags, if Sera is willing to share, and heads in a step or two behind Sera.
Sera zeroes in on Grace. Hawksley's eyes run up Justin's back from lumbar to cervical spine like a finger dragging across skin. "Excuse her," he says to them, or perhaps just Justin: "she's gone Puritan. Too much clean living."
He gives Shoshannah an upward nod, a nonverbal hey, and sets a bag down, and pushes his aviators up and grabs some counter, swinging himself up to sit on the edge, long legs dangling down. He leans over to peer into the bags Sera had him trafficking, but he's talking to Justin while he does so. You can tell, because he starts with:
"Justin, when you have a minute, we should talk."
my whole life is thunder.