"If that's all there was to it," Jordie says, and picks up his cigarette again with spindly deliberation, "just the last five years, and nothing else -- "
Slowly he lifts his head. Simon's cold; Jordie is bitter.
"Because we've been friends for the entirety of our adult lives." Beat. 'You idiot. It means something. You think I'd be here if it were Dunash? No. I'd be holed up at home. As usual."
Jordie has heavy, dark circles under his eyes.
He's sitting in a booth, smoking. A slice of pie is in front of him, untouched.
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"Is there something else you have to say?"
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Still cold, and there's hurt under it.
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Slowly he lifts his head. Simon's cold; Jordie is bitter.
"I wouldn't be here. What do you take me for?"
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The coldness is dissipating, slowly.
"If that's not what you meant when you said you wouldn't be here but for feeling you owed a debt --"
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"I meant what I said." Quiet. "About what you should do if you think you owe me anything."
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It's an old logical fallacy, as much a mainstay of their old late-night arguments as ad hominem or correlation-causation.
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No more cigarette. He'll try -- try -- to last out the conversation.
Jordie picks up his fork and starts playing with that instead.
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Simon picks up his own fork, and carefully cuts a bite of pie.
"I don't imagine this is the time or place to discuss that in any more detail," he says, and his tone's a little tentative.
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