04-01-2024, 04:23 PM
A consultant, says Jude, and the proclamation nudges Near to the verge of groaning out loud. Almost. The sound is just there trying to rise from the bottom of his throat, but he stops it short like swallowing bile; the lesser reaction of a brief, sour grimace manages to escape into the world.
That’s probably exactly how Jude thinks of himself, too. A “consultant.” Bullshit made-up job title that people who don’t really do anything useful claim for themselves to pull one over on people who do. Well, consult this …
Guthrie hovers near the console table by the wall, grasping the flimsy Subway bag in his fist with no indication of being about to put it down, like it’s keeping him anchored to the floor. His face maintains most if not all of the even-keeled composure that it usually does when they’re together, which has been an unfairly an unremarked-on source of irritation to Near, not only because an outburst might jostle the weird feeling of superfluousness that Guthrie instills in him sometimes, but because it effectively prevents him from guessing what thoughts are happening on the other side of it. His sensitivity to subtler emotional frequencies has been blown out by standing too close to knock-down blow-out drama for too long. All his imagination is capable of is disasters.
“Hah.” (This is not laughter, just a recitation of one of its component sounds.) “Shifty?”
“I think Jude’s got me confused with … Jude,” says Near, aiming for somewhere between pointed and breezy.
“I don’t usually have any trouble getting straight answers out of him.” Guthrie to Jude. Mild. Conversational. “Maybe it’s just you. What kind of consulting do you do?”
That’s probably exactly how Jude thinks of himself, too. A “consultant.” Bullshit made-up job title that people who don’t really do anything useful claim for themselves to pull one over on people who do. Well, consult this …
Guthrie hovers near the console table by the wall, grasping the flimsy Subway bag in his fist with no indication of being about to put it down, like it’s keeping him anchored to the floor. His face maintains most if not all of the even-keeled composure that it usually does when they’re together, which has been an unfairly an unremarked-on source of irritation to Near, not only because an outburst might jostle the weird feeling of superfluousness that Guthrie instills in him sometimes, but because it effectively prevents him from guessing what thoughts are happening on the other side of it. His sensitivity to subtler emotional frequencies has been blown out by standing too close to knock-down blow-out drama for too long. All his imagination is capable of is disasters.
“Hah.” (This is not laughter, just a recitation of one of its component sounds.) “Shifty?”
“I think Jude’s got me confused with … Jude,” says Near, aiming for somewhere between pointed and breezy.
“I don’t usually have any trouble getting straight answers out of him.” Guthrie to Jude. Mild. Conversational. “Maybe it’s just you. What kind of consulting do you do?”