<div style="background-color:#353535; border:1px solid black; margin:10px 10px; padding-left: 5px; padding-right: 5px;"><div style="text-align: justify;">"Oh."<br/><br/>Tom wasn't quite awake enough to be disappointed, but the feeling of an opportune moment fluttering by was still worming its way through his hollow gut. The realization of his generally failed existence was beginning to seep through the cracks in his hangover like tar. He had no money, no job, no skills of note, no family... And no partner, not even an imagined one. Taking the note again, he squinted, unable to tell if it was his handwriting.<br/><br/>"If you say so..." He replied slowly. How was the other man so composed? Well, he obviously didn't just have his last hope in the world shattered, but still. It had been a rough night. Tom stuffed the paper in his pocket again, although he wasn't entirely sure why. With a jolt he realized that this was the last piece of paper he might ever own before he died in the side of the road. Somehow, that seemed very important.<br/><br/>Tom took a few steps towards the barn door, stopping in the entrance to throw a look back at the stranger. He cleared his throat. "Well, uh... See you?"<br/><br/>He did not wait for an answer. Instead, he walked out of the stable, across the street, and slumped down on a bench on the opposite side. His hand was still in his pocket, fiddling the piece of paper. It was the only thing he could think of doing.</div></div>