06-09-2020, 08:24 PM
“That’s exactly --” but the kid had already hopped to his feet and was headed toward the stairs, anxious, it seemed, to get his trial of endurance over with. So Near stopped short of completing his spoken observation that they seemed to be in agreement with one another, at least about sex dungeons, a topic that felt both more accessible and more urgent and more interesting than that of unspeakable peril facing the world. And what did that say about him?
He bided the time the kid spent down in the depths by dumping the remainder of the tea in his mug down the round, open mouth of the kitchen sink, replacing it with water from the tap, and throwing it back like tequila. After, he retrieved the corkscrew he had used to open his Barolo from the drawer closest to the hall and waited, flapping its arms like wings. He was still headachey, still dog tired (somewhere among The Reaches’ fifteen rooms, a dog was sleeping better than him, or else she was chewing up priceless family heirlooms -- he was a little envious either way). More than shuteye, though, he needed the win that the bottle of wine had come to represent in his head.
The bottle of French wine. Boring label, old enough to be in high school. Old enough to be messing around under the bleachers with another teenage bottle of wine. Probably worth something. “Nope. ‘Split a bottle,' half and half. Four glasses, if you're generous.” He snatched it out of Jude’s hands, stabbed it artlessly in the neck. Only after he’d dug the cork out and offered it back to the kid (seemed fair to let him pour first) did the thought occur, “Shit, you probably could have done that better with your mind, huh?”
He bided the time the kid spent down in the depths by dumping the remainder of the tea in his mug down the round, open mouth of the kitchen sink, replacing it with water from the tap, and throwing it back like tequila. After, he retrieved the corkscrew he had used to open his Barolo from the drawer closest to the hall and waited, flapping its arms like wings. He was still headachey, still dog tired (somewhere among The Reaches’ fifteen rooms, a dog was sleeping better than him, or else she was chewing up priceless family heirlooms -- he was a little envious either way). More than shuteye, though, he needed the win that the bottle of wine had come to represent in his head.
The bottle of French wine. Boring label, old enough to be in high school. Old enough to be messing around under the bleachers with another teenage bottle of wine. Probably worth something. “Nope. ‘Split a bottle,' half and half. Four glasses, if you're generous.” He snatched it out of Jude’s hands, stabbed it artlessly in the neck. Only after he’d dug the cork out and offered it back to the kid (seemed fair to let him pour first) did the thought occur, “Shit, you probably could have done that better with your mind, huh?”