Who:
supercilious and
lumenrelegandusWhen: Nowadays
Where: Circuitous route to Duncan's pub, stopping at the
Memorial TreeFormat: Prose, then…?
What: Bye, Shirley.
Warnings: Men dealing with grief. (Like watching a whale knit. …No, no, these are sensitive new age guys. Maybe.)
(
silivren penna míriel )
One: fiercely, hurting. Everything clenched tight and eyes burning and something sharp and brittle caught at the back of your throat, unspoken.
Two: with distance. Looking nostalgically back across the echoing chasm of the years, to patchy memories that are more a collection of still pictures than a reel of video. From there, you can reach, gently, after ghosts, turn what ifs over like smooth stones in the palm, well-worn and easy, slightly warm from the heat of your own body ( ... )
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"To what," says Lupin, grabbing a glass en route and keeping it held toward Arthur as he takes a seat, "are we drinking?"
(Redundant, rhetorical, or seeking simpler articulation.)
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He drinks. The sound of the stem on the table as he puts the glass down is softer than the restrained violence of his movements would suggest. Not totally drunk, not yet. But getting there.
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Maybe that's some reason why he dives headfirst rather than hazarding the customary toe. But need there be a reason?
"I lived under the same roof as Shirley for months. But I don't think I ever lived in quite the same world. I wasn't even aware you two knew each other until recently."
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