01-28-2019, 03:10 PM
He inhaled, deep; held the reminder of how unfamiliar the air still tasted at the bottom of his lungs while he mulled the question; and then let it escape in the form of an elongated, resigned heave chased by an elongated, resigned, “Shiiit.” The towel on the floor received a petulant kick halfway halfway across the room.
“Fine.” Punchier in the follow-up. He took a wide curve around the couch, carrying the bottle but abandoning the towel, the gun, whatever else he had carted in and forgotten at Jude’s appearance, where it lay. Straight(ish) down the paneled hallway without looking back to confirm the assumption that he was being followed -- he was still pretty sure the kid didn’t really need sherpa service -- and into the room at the front of the house whose proper nomenclature he wasn’t so sure of. He was a one-bedroom apartment kind of guy. Studio, when times were tough. Not knowing the commonly-accepted word to refer to where he was standing had emerged as a running theme throughout his explorations.
Whatever this was, it was significantly larger than the space he had been drinking in (drinking room, sitting room, living room, den?), and more formal: polished parquet floors, cathedral ceiling, arches, ridiculous curving staircase, and a built-in bar in the back that eclipsed anything he had ever stood behind. He had dragged dust sheets off of a few pieces of furniture to reveal heavy carved legs and cream upholstery; more remained covered. These formed a ghostly populace, reflecting the meager light that stole in through a gap in the curtains that hid a massive window that looked out toward the driveway, the front lawn, Near’s car -- assuming it hadn’t been hotwired by an accomplice of Jude’s. It was toward this he continued, with the intention of widening the gap: there were probably switches that controlled the lights somewhere, but he didn’t know where.
Lew was curled up on one of the phantom sofas. She glanced up as Near passed by and flopped her tail back and forth a few times.
“Fine.” Punchier in the follow-up. He took a wide curve around the couch, carrying the bottle but abandoning the towel, the gun, whatever else he had carted in and forgotten at Jude’s appearance, where it lay. Straight(ish) down the paneled hallway without looking back to confirm the assumption that he was being followed -- he was still pretty sure the kid didn’t really need sherpa service -- and into the room at the front of the house whose proper nomenclature he wasn’t so sure of. He was a one-bedroom apartment kind of guy. Studio, when times were tough. Not knowing the commonly-accepted word to refer to where he was standing had emerged as a running theme throughout his explorations.
Whatever this was, it was significantly larger than the space he had been drinking in (drinking room, sitting room, living room, den?), and more formal: polished parquet floors, cathedral ceiling, arches, ridiculous curving staircase, and a built-in bar in the back that eclipsed anything he had ever stood behind. He had dragged dust sheets off of a few pieces of furniture to reveal heavy carved legs and cream upholstery; more remained covered. These formed a ghostly populace, reflecting the meager light that stole in through a gap in the curtains that hid a massive window that looked out toward the driveway, the front lawn, Near’s car -- assuming it hadn’t been hotwired by an accomplice of Jude’s. It was toward this he continued, with the intention of widening the gap: there were probably switches that controlled the lights somewhere, but he didn’t know where.
Lew was curled up on one of the phantom sofas. She glanced up as Near passed by and flopped her tail back and forth a few times.