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In that house at the top of the rock
Oct. 13th, 2022 03:58 pmThere are many unkind descriptors that John could apply to the binge he went on the better part of a week ago. Could, and has done: lord knows he hasn't gone easy on himself over the past several days. But the recollection of Norah's 'highly unbecoming' is what has echoed (hah) in his mind with the most frequency. It was an almost laughable understatement, as if he'd belched in the middle of a church service, or committed some other faux pas that one would only expect from the willfully careless. But maybe that's why it hurt. The inescapable presupposition that he could have controlled himself, should have controlled himself. The implication that it wasn't just harmful, but shameful.
There were other words too, of course: her belief that he wasn't trying to hurt her, the offer to stay with him in case he was frightened, her determination to help. The insistence that he come and see her when he woke. All of it far less bearable than 'highly unbecoming.' He couldn't imagine facing her. Hadn't wanted to.
And then she'd sent him a rather pointed text, not so much reminding him of the invitation as insisting upon it. He was then forced to consider the futility of hiding from someone capable of appearing wherever she chose, and the likelihood of her choosing a far less appealing time and place for a confrontation than 'after work' and 'at the Observatory, where there at least shouldn't be any other witnesses.'
Presuming he hasn't avoided her for long enough that she's staging a bloody intervention.
It's getting on towards sunset as John trudges up the staircase, the trees casting long shadows across the cracked, uneven steps. He's spent so much of the past week hiding in either his flat or his office that his legs protest even this relatively mild exercise, though he doubts the sudden cardio is the only reason he feels unsteady as he reaches the doors. He still doesn't want to do this. It feels, absurdly, like he's about to get a scolding from his grandmother.
But he has no right to be a child about it. John raps twice on the door to announce himself, then pushes his way inside and lets out a quiet cough, eyes downcast and cheeks already darkening with an unhappy flush.
There were other words too, of course: her belief that he wasn't trying to hurt her, the offer to stay with him in case he was frightened, her determination to help. The insistence that he come and see her when he woke. All of it far less bearable than 'highly unbecoming.' He couldn't imagine facing her. Hadn't wanted to.
And then she'd sent him a rather pointed text, not so much reminding him of the invitation as insisting upon it. He was then forced to consider the futility of hiding from someone capable of appearing wherever she chose, and the likelihood of her choosing a far less appealing time and place for a confrontation than 'after work' and 'at the Observatory, where there at least shouldn't be any other witnesses.'
Presuming he hasn't avoided her for long enough that she's staging a bloody intervention.
It's getting on towards sunset as John trudges up the staircase, the trees casting long shadows across the cracked, uneven steps. He's spent so much of the past week hiding in either his flat or his office that his legs protest even this relatively mild exercise, though he doubts the sudden cardio is the only reason he feels unsteady as he reaches the doors. He still doesn't want to do this. It feels, absurdly, like he's about to get a scolding from his grandmother.
But he has no right to be a child about it. John raps twice on the door to announce himself, then pushes his way inside and lets out a quiet cough, eyes downcast and cheeks already darkening with an unhappy flush.
