11-29-2022, 03:16 AM
Near's face shuffles itself into a furrow/grimace composition that has more to do with perplexity than displeasure, like the audio channel flipped to Spanish and he had to puzzle out the gap of why he suddenly couldn't understand, except what Jude flipped to was asking a question instead of glowering silently at the soft rock whispering from his car speakers.
He wants to lie about it.
Not just to Jude but to anyone, in any case.
Actually, no. In this case he wants to declare that it is not any of Jude's damn business who he lives with. Whom. Who? Grammar aside, it doesn't matter what Near wants: it's not as if Jude won't be able to assess the situation for himself when he walks in.
He does spend nights at Guthrie's sometimes. Of course he does. And Guthrie will, on occasion, come to him, always with an air of concession because Guthrie lives in one of the sharp-angled modernist façade buildings across town and as such harbors unexplored and frankly ironic feelings of social superiority toward Near and his slubbier accommodations. That's Near's theory, anyway.
Near who can't bring himself to invite anyone to stay with him, even though not coming home to someone feels like defeat again and again and again. There was always somebody to keep him company before, whatever dump he was calling home. Not *good* people, but *his* people: the deadbeat roommate, the itinerant toxic lover, the homeless girl crashing on his couch for a few nights before she disappeared. A whole series of beloved fuck-ups.
"Just me," he says, spotting for only-the-facts and wobbling a little on the landing. The "There's a cat that comes around sometimes," that he tacks on as he jangles a set of keys out of his pocket ends up heavier than he intended.
The inside of the ground floor unit that peeks out from the door when he gets it unlocked and open is as unremarkable as the outside: an ensemble of beiges and off-whites, a smattering of Ikea furniture, couple of shirts tossed on the floor to be picked up later and taken to the laundry room.
Near slips in first, figures Jude will follow or won't.
He wants to lie about it.
Not just to Jude but to anyone, in any case.
Actually, no. In this case he wants to declare that it is not any of Jude's damn business who he lives with. Whom. Who? Grammar aside, it doesn't matter what Near wants: it's not as if Jude won't be able to assess the situation for himself when he walks in.
He does spend nights at Guthrie's sometimes. Of course he does. And Guthrie will, on occasion, come to him, always with an air of concession because Guthrie lives in one of the sharp-angled modernist façade buildings across town and as such harbors unexplored and frankly ironic feelings of social superiority toward Near and his slubbier accommodations. That's Near's theory, anyway.
Near who can't bring himself to invite anyone to stay with him, even though not coming home to someone feels like defeat again and again and again. There was always somebody to keep him company before, whatever dump he was calling home. Not *good* people, but *his* people: the deadbeat roommate, the itinerant toxic lover, the homeless girl crashing on his couch for a few nights before she disappeared. A whole series of beloved fuck-ups.
"Just me," he says, spotting for only-the-facts and wobbling a little on the landing. The "There's a cat that comes around sometimes," that he tacks on as he jangles a set of keys out of his pocket ends up heavier than he intended.
The inside of the ground floor unit that peeks out from the door when he gets it unlocked and open is as unremarkable as the outside: an ensemble of beiges and off-whites, a smattering of Ikea furniture, couple of shirts tossed on the floor to be picked up later and taken to the laundry room.
Near slips in first, figures Jude will follow or won't.