"And just for the record,"

  a very tall man smacked the newspaper ad for a "play" onto the restaurant table, "They aren't faggots, they're kooks."  A suited couple just stared at him.  "Creatives!" 

  The man started to back away. 

  In through the street door came a boisterous crowd of dramatists and critics. 

  "Nope.  No way," a woman with a literary reputation put her napkin onto her food and gathered up a thin briefcase and purse.  "We need to get out of here before we get sucked in.  We'll be here all night." 

  "Maybe we need to get out more," one young person said hopefully. 

  "We need water and sleep." 

  "Ironic coming from such a one," grown ups of the group were already inside and across the room and categorizing the patrons.  And the Society crowd just kept coming, louder and louder, on and on with a barage of "town crying" and people labeling. 

  Outside the air was cold and the sky a stark contrast to humanity.  "At least the article wasn't on a page that'll get ripped out as an advertisement." 

  "Doing that these days mum?" 

  "Whatever I can." 

  "I'll start running for my life." 

  The conversation was sublimated into lighting smokes and not really looking at each other. 

  "They need to know the truth."  The woman blew out the words with the vapors. 

  "They don't care."  A cab was suddenly hailed.