It had been expected enough. (A phone call and a request. A plea and a bargain. Someone wishing for the day off. And Kaworu had possessed no protests. Has possessed no reluctance. An extra shift was not bad. An extra shift for a favor was not a nuisance. And he had welcomed it, enough. Had taken it.)
It had been unexpected enough. (The sudden bustling of the stilled restaurant. Holidays. The extension of hours, rolling onward. The pull for requests for service. From him. The back-up of orders. Drinks split and tablecloths replaced. A welcomed business, but –)
This was anticipated. And not.
And he can feel the shift before he sees it. Can feel the pull of upset. The throw of voices. Muffled. Here and there. (And above the roar of cars. Above the shuffle of footsteps. Below and beyond. He can hear them. Can hear the words. Spun careful and flung. The roiling edge of vitriol. The sharpening of tongues – and he’s not too quiet when he steps in. Not too quiet when his fingers find the doorknob. Not too quiet when he shuts the door behind him. Carrying back the scent of Venice. The bustle and hum of streets. Foreign – once.)
And he’s not too quiet when he’s toeing off his work shoes. Not too quiet when he finds himself moving, automatically. Following the ebb and flow of aggression. The sudden web of animosity. Waiting to pull around his ankles. Always there, but silent. Resilient. Always there, but patient. Wondering. Wandering.
He says nothing as crosses the threshold into the kitchen. Says nothing as he stands just beyond the wake of their storm. Fingers buried in the knot of his work tie. Loosening. And, for once, does not announce himself. Does not greet anyone. (And sees, without seeing, the eruption of frustration. The tension in frames. The whitening knuckles. Resignation. A table, once set. And –)
no subject
It had been unexpected enough. (The sudden bustling of the stilled restaurant. Holidays. The extension of hours, rolling onward. The pull for requests for service. From him. The back-up of orders. Drinks split and tablecloths replaced. A welcomed business, but –)
This was anticipated. And not.
And he can feel the shift before he sees it. Can feel the pull of upset. The throw of voices. Muffled. Here and there. (And above the roar of cars. Above the shuffle of footsteps. Below and beyond. He can hear them. Can hear the words. Spun careful and flung. The roiling edge of vitriol. The sharpening of tongues – and he’s not too quiet when he steps in. Not too quiet when his fingers find the doorknob. Not too quiet when he shuts the door behind him. Carrying back the scent of Venice. The bustle and hum of streets. Foreign – once.)
And he’s not too quiet when he’s toeing off his work shoes. Not too quiet when he finds himself moving, automatically. Following the ebb and flow of aggression. The sudden web of animosity. Waiting to pull around his ankles. Always there, but silent. Resilient. Always there, but patient. Wondering. Wandering.
He says nothing as crosses the threshold into the kitchen. Says nothing as he stands just beyond the wake of their storm. Fingers buried in the knot of his work tie. Loosening. And, for once, does not announce himself. Does not greet anyone. (And sees, without seeing, the eruption of frustration. The tension in frames. The whitening knuckles. Resignation. A table, once set. And –)
Realizes.
(He knows.)