Who and Where Man

"I understand the old man chooses his gains with humility. Not that he has much to live for anyway," Lase teases, his voice carrying an edge of casual indifference. He addresses a man who has been pacing incessantly, cutting through Lase's line of sight, distracting him fifteen times in barely two minutes. Lase's patience wears thin, especially with Rosales sitting across from him in a bare-backed dress, stunning and serene. She is the kind of sight one doesn't wish to miss, and until now, Lase had the perfect angle.

The man halts, finally, his wandering brought to a stop by Lase's remark. But instead of moving away, he seems to inflate under his enormous green robes, becoming even more of an obstacle. "Ha!" His voice booms, deep and jovial, like a child thrilled with his own importance. "A market man always goes where it profits the market." He swaggers to the left, sliding back into Lase's line of sight. "The market took his soul first when he chose the trade, and the rest of him followed when he made his first stash of coins."

The man shifts again, this time to the right, obliterating more of Lase's view of Rosales, who remains as radiant as ever in the background, barely visible behind the man's exaggerated movements.

Quite the performer, Lase thinks dryly, though this performance is ruining his evening. He waits, hoping the man will tire and move along.

"Profit is the heart of the market, and the market is the heart of the merchant," the man drones on, his voice rich with self-satisfaction. "The old man is nothing but a pawn, moved at the whims of the market, even against his will."

Lase's initial curiosity has long since dissolved into boredom. He regrets ever engaging this windbag. And now, the real tragedy: while Rosales had been the epitome of grace earlier, sitting quietly and elegantly, Lase could see the first signs of restlessness in her. The way she shifted her legs, the slight tension in her fingers as they played absentmindedly with her glass. The fatigue of the stifling room was clearly beginning to take its toll on her, and Lase's frustration only deepened. If this fool hadn't blocked his view, he might have noticed these subtle changes earlier, perhaps even acted on them. But now, his chance was slipping away, obscured by the green-robed behemoth.

Still, Lase knows better than to swap places; it would be a social misstep, a mistake that wouldn't be forgiven. It's a delicate game, but surely a man should be allowed to indulge in his imagination now and then. Perhaps if he placates the giant, he can still catch the fleeting moments that remain. There is, after all, still a small window to peer through.

Or maybe not. The man, now wildly gesticulating, swings his arms back and forth, swaying from side to side. "... this way and he stumbles, that way and guess what? He goes! just like that! Haha! It gets better!"

But it doesn't. It gets worse. A cloud of green fur billows from the man's robes, completely covering Lase's field of vision. The final insult comes when the man slams a heavy leather boot onto the table with a thud, ensuring that this irritating presence isn't going anywhere.

Instant regret floods Lase. He should have let this fool swagger past earlier when the interruption had been temporary. Now, he's stuck with this boorish monologue, and Rosales, his one source of enjoyment, is slipping further out of reach.

"And half a fortnight ago, the market brought him groveling to my feet," the man continues, oblivious to Lase's growing frustration. "I think I'll do him and myself a favor by keeping the market and its errand boys in proper check. Fear not."

Lase forces a smile, though his patience is hanging by a thread. To make matters worse, the man is now patting his shoulder as if Lase were a child in need of comfort. This insufferable fool even has the audacity to tell him not to fear a mere merchant.

"Who fears a merchant?" Lase asks, his voice tight with forced politeness. "Why would anyone fear a man who builds rapport with the denizens?"

He braces for yet another long-winded reply, but to his surprise, the man falters. Perhaps he has sensed the irritation thinly veiled behind Lase's smile. He tilts his head, his brow furrowing, as if unsure whether to continue.

For the first time, silence falls between them, and Lase exhales softly, grateful for even a moment of quiet.