“Oh, are you? Jude?” A name with a whiff of vintage, of catechism. A hitch in his ears, weird, but time and experience had taught Near Farr to quash passing thoughts about the unsuitability of other people’s names as soon as they began to form: they invariably got turned back around on him. Defending “Near” and explaining “Courtland” had lost any satisfaction they may have once had over the first eight hundred iterations.
In fact, he opted not to reciprocate the introduction at all, rather tacking on a “Fantastic,” into which the sarcasm just audible in the preceding questions continued to creep like an infection.
It was not a particularly mean-spirited strain; nor was it even directed toward the scrawny young man, the party-goer, the apparent friend of his dead father’s, who was standing at his shoulder with his hand out, really; its intended mark was the broader situation -- or maybe even Near himself, for allowing the situation to form as it had. He couldn’t have said, really; he only heard it and agreed with himself, even as he reached his own bottle-less hand out, bypassing the prompt for some kind of gentleman’s reception and instead snatching the towel, flopping it over his head.
He rose to his feet and began to blot still-dripping curls with it, continuing, “Talk about what?” Then, without pausing for an answer, “Wait, heard about me from who?” The statement had caught up to him like a needle passing through numbed skin. Wrong question, though. Had to be Daddy. Who else? But what could the old bastard have had to say about him?
In fact, he opted not to reciprocate the introduction at all, rather tacking on a “Fantastic,” into which the sarcasm just audible in the preceding questions continued to creep like an infection.
It was not a particularly mean-spirited strain; nor was it even directed toward the scrawny young man, the party-goer, the apparent friend of his dead father’s, who was standing at his shoulder with his hand out, really; its intended mark was the broader situation -- or maybe even Near himself, for allowing the situation to form as it had. He couldn’t have said, really; he only heard it and agreed with himself, even as he reached his own bottle-less hand out, bypassing the prompt for some kind of gentleman’s reception and instead snatching the towel, flopping it over his head.
He rose to his feet and began to blot still-dripping curls with it, continuing, “Talk about what?” Then, without pausing for an answer, “Wait, heard about me from who?” The statement had caught up to him like a needle passing through numbed skin. Wrong question, though. Had to be Daddy. Who else? But what could the old bastard have had to say about him?