when a guy approaches you from out of nowhere, and the two of you hit it off conversation-wise (talking art), and then he says they used to call him Lucifer back in LA, you start to wonder why and what the metaphysical purpose of his visit might be.
and now knowing what you know about his old nickname, you can draw only vague albeit somewhat disconcerting conclusions, and therefore your thoughts have taken a detour, and his side of the conversation is no longer registering in your logical brain. That’s when you start taking note of his physical features and character traits, trying to figure out what they might indicate: his cocked fedora; his slow, confident gait; his diagonal eyebrows, so elegant in the way that they slant; his shrewd stare.
handing you his business card (photography specializing in portraits of women), he goes on to say he had a complimentary studio in LA — a sprawling loft — because he dealt drugs for some local mogul, and during business lulls he collaged the walls using clippings of vintage smut. He claimed to have staved off a bust once because the officer was enthralled by his artwork.
This guile was what set your thoughts aflame the most, and so unquestioningly, you used the whole Lucifer thing as a departure point.