There we go.
Jude’s knack for indefatigable asshattery was just what the doctor ordered, a tailor-made salve for the itchy sensation of fault that had been spreading up the breadth of Near’s conscience like a contact rash.
“I’d rather be an idiot than a worthless spoiled fucking kid,” he clapped back, though in his indoor voice that he didn’t imagine would penetrate the road and rattling truck ambience deep enough for Jude to hear.
That was all. If his drunk and obnoxious traveling companion were concussed, so be it. For his part, he closed his eyes against the fingers of wind working his already-messy curls into impenetrable tangles and meditated for a while on the nature of rigidity and on deja vu. How many times had he performed exactly that argument -- who was worse, who was wronger, who was stupider -- fed by exactly that same feeling of inutile exasperation like he was arguing with a child and ending with exactly the same dissatisfaction by the end. As if petty name calling had ever accomplished anything, from the playground to today. Usually at least the various iterations of the argument led, immediately or after some cooldown time, to sex, but there wasn’t even that to contemplate with Jude, there was just mutual dislike feeding off itself, and it was strangely uncomfortable to think that he was playing out his habitual lovers’ spat without any of the love.
The truck continued sloggily up the road for a while, then swung left (Near clinging to metal), and kept going through what several scattered glimpses proved to be trees and trees and trees. Another turn led to what read like an unpaved stretch of road, and eventually they whined to a halt in a place that didn’t look like it was worthy of any name, even one as unimpressive as Burley: a single wooden cabin in a clearing between the crowded trees.
Jude’s knack for indefatigable asshattery was just what the doctor ordered, a tailor-made salve for the itchy sensation of fault that had been spreading up the breadth of Near’s conscience like a contact rash.
“I’d rather be an idiot than a worthless spoiled fucking kid,” he clapped back, though in his indoor voice that he didn’t imagine would penetrate the road and rattling truck ambience deep enough for Jude to hear.
That was all. If his drunk and obnoxious traveling companion were concussed, so be it. For his part, he closed his eyes against the fingers of wind working his already-messy curls into impenetrable tangles and meditated for a while on the nature of rigidity and on deja vu. How many times had he performed exactly that argument -- who was worse, who was wronger, who was stupider -- fed by exactly that same feeling of inutile exasperation like he was arguing with a child and ending with exactly the same dissatisfaction by the end. As if petty name calling had ever accomplished anything, from the playground to today. Usually at least the various iterations of the argument led, immediately or after some cooldown time, to sex, but there wasn’t even that to contemplate with Jude, there was just mutual dislike feeding off itself, and it was strangely uncomfortable to think that he was playing out his habitual lovers’ spat without any of the love.
The truck continued sloggily up the road for a while, then swung left (Near clinging to metal), and kept going through what several scattered glimpses proved to be trees and trees and trees. Another turn led to what read like an unpaved stretch of road, and eventually they whined to a halt in a place that didn’t look like it was worthy of any name, even one as unimpressive as Burley: a single wooden cabin in a clearing between the crowded trees.