11-22-2019, 06:13 PM
“Tea?”
The question -- the raw syllable -- became a source of bafflement for a moment, like a foreign word dropped into the middle of a conversation otherwise conducted in comprehensible English. (He was not unappreciative of how ‘scrying’ and ‘time travel’ was the English in this case -- and what did that say about him, how quickly his skepticism had eroded? This, this was exactly why he stayed away from churches.) It wasn’t that he was unfamiliar with tea as a choice of beverage, only that the concept was discordant here, within walls where his own focus had been narrowed to wine and brandy and cedar-smelling duvets. Tea.
He appended a “No,” once the word settled in, “of course not” implications because why the hell would he, did he look like a person who carried around tea? And then, as it dawned on him that Jude probably meant something more like was there any here, he shrugged and revised to “No idea.” Tea was not one of the effects that he had been taking any note of as he rifled through cabinet contents -- none of which he considered his anyway, since he was still allowing himself the novel sensation of drinking Courtland’s reserves and putting his feet up on Courtland’s furniture. He shook his head, more a reaction to the whole situation than a doubling-down on his no. If he was being honest, the thought of serving up a drink -- tea or cocktail, just something in a cup -- came with an odd shade of familiarity, of normalcy, as if he might be able to pretend himself into his comfort zone if he tried hard enough.
He fumbled at the double light switch by the entry, flicked the one on the right upward. Overheads all came on at once, white a couple of shades too cool. He blinked through the brilliance to locate something he knew he’d seen: a kettle, hefty chrome modern-art number, across from the kid, in the midst of a kitchenware cluster (big pot, little pot, canister with utensils) next to the range built into the island.
“Feel free to look,” he said, as he went to play with the knobs on the range, omitting the bit in his head about how he could go ahead and scry out his favorite flavor. “That thing earlier, that didn’t ‘attract attention?’” Surely that had thrown up a giant fucking neon beacon in the psychic landscape.
The question -- the raw syllable -- became a source of bafflement for a moment, like a foreign word dropped into the middle of a conversation otherwise conducted in comprehensible English. (He was not unappreciative of how ‘scrying’ and ‘time travel’ was the English in this case -- and what did that say about him, how quickly his skepticism had eroded? This, this was exactly why he stayed away from churches.) It wasn’t that he was unfamiliar with tea as a choice of beverage, only that the concept was discordant here, within walls where his own focus had been narrowed to wine and brandy and cedar-smelling duvets. Tea.
He appended a “No,” once the word settled in, “of course not” implications because why the hell would he, did he look like a person who carried around tea? And then, as it dawned on him that Jude probably meant something more like was there any here, he shrugged and revised to “No idea.” Tea was not one of the effects that he had been taking any note of as he rifled through cabinet contents -- none of which he considered his anyway, since he was still allowing himself the novel sensation of drinking Courtland’s reserves and putting his feet up on Courtland’s furniture. He shook his head, more a reaction to the whole situation than a doubling-down on his no. If he was being honest, the thought of serving up a drink -- tea or cocktail, just something in a cup -- came with an odd shade of familiarity, of normalcy, as if he might be able to pretend himself into his comfort zone if he tried hard enough.
He fumbled at the double light switch by the entry, flicked the one on the right upward. Overheads all came on at once, white a couple of shades too cool. He blinked through the brilliance to locate something he knew he’d seen: a kettle, hefty chrome modern-art number, across from the kid, in the midst of a kitchenware cluster (big pot, little pot, canister with utensils) next to the range built into the island.
“Feel free to look,” he said, as he went to play with the knobs on the range, omitting the bit in his head about how he could go ahead and scry out his favorite flavor. “That thing earlier, that didn’t ‘attract attention?’” Surely that had thrown up a giant fucking neon beacon in the psychic landscape.