A few weeks in France has not improved his French. Started at nothing, now he's here, still with nothing. It flows over him as if it wasn't spoken at all, his attention only alighting on the out of context bubble sandwiched inside. Perhaps the man speaks English; it seems plenty of French nationals do, still, impressively holding onto their disdain for foreigners attempting their language even over a decade into the end of the world. But perhaps the man just knows that phrase. Like Daryl only knows Hasta la vista.

weve got jokes

Smoke goes in and out of his lungs. His elbow remains on the bar. Ice chip eyes flicker, barely any movement, but taking him in anyway. He observes the man, in his perfect clothes, with his relaxed posture, displaying his well-groomed and squeaky-clean odds and ends. The way it doesn't quite grease the lens that pulls his strong frame into focus.

Daryl turns away from the man and looks back at the paintings again, and takes another slow pull off the coffin nail. He exhales,

"Weird ghillie suit."