02-07-2019, 02:24 AM
No, they weren't friends, and Jude wasn't a real guest, merely an intruder who had not yet been thrown out. Near was all the way near the window, too far to hear that the cabinet had been locked, too far to hear the tumblers lift themselves with the boost of a ghostly key, too far to hear the gasp of the cabinet door, as if it knew all that was to transpire. Jude would have ignored Near if he had protested. Jude needed to tell him why he was here. More than that, he needed Near to believe him. Jude needed to be understood.
He heard it, for the first time, Courtland's voice through Near's mouth, when Near began to talk of gin. Not exactly Courtland's voice, but a loquacious stance of the wealthy, a position that could only be adopted through expensive excessive consumption, through education, through delicate antennae that sensed what was the current and correct opinion to have. If he had not already, Near would become familiar with the look on Jude's face. It was an expression of humility and obedience; the listener was aware that he was ill-informed by comparison, and it was best to simply concede to Near's facts. Not visible on Jude's face was a throb of jealousy, not only for what Near knew of the world, but his animation on such a banal subject. Near knew, and he cared to know. Jude envied that. He looked down again to the gin bottle, to the monkey clutching a sprig of lavender.
"I'm sorry." Jude looked up, and met Near's eyes across the bar. "About your father. And about bothering you." For a moment, it seemed like they were talking past each other again, that Jude was saying something irrelevant or that Near could not hear. Once more, Jude's words were divorced from any context.
Three things occurred in rapid succession.
Jude took the gin bottle by the neck and swung it an arc, from left to right.
He smashed the bottle on the edge of the bar.
He pointed the remains of the bottle - its jagged neck, its hungry teeth - across the bar, at Near's throat.
"Don't move. And don't talk. And if your dog moves, that counts."
He heard it, for the first time, Courtland's voice through Near's mouth, when Near began to talk of gin. Not exactly Courtland's voice, but a loquacious stance of the wealthy, a position that could only be adopted through expensive excessive consumption, through education, through delicate antennae that sensed what was the current and correct opinion to have. If he had not already, Near would become familiar with the look on Jude's face. It was an expression of humility and obedience; the listener was aware that he was ill-informed by comparison, and it was best to simply concede to Near's facts. Not visible on Jude's face was a throb of jealousy, not only for what Near knew of the world, but his animation on such a banal subject. Near knew, and he cared to know. Jude envied that. He looked down again to the gin bottle, to the monkey clutching a sprig of lavender.
"I'm sorry." Jude looked up, and met Near's eyes across the bar. "About your father. And about bothering you." For a moment, it seemed like they were talking past each other again, that Jude was saying something irrelevant or that Near could not hear. Once more, Jude's words were divorced from any context.
Three things occurred in rapid succession.
Jude took the gin bottle by the neck and swung it an arc, from left to right.
He smashed the bottle on the edge of the bar.
He pointed the remains of the bottle - its jagged neck, its hungry teeth - across the bar, at Near's throat.
"Don't move. And don't talk. And if your dog moves, that counts."