4.1 Judgemental Bastard
The hallway was cold.
Silas walked it like a man who had already decided not to think about what just happened.
Shirt ruined. Coffee gone, somewhere. Nothing to do with his hands.
He stopped.
Slammed his fist into the wall. The brick split clean.
“I need a new assistant for this shit,” he muttered to the marble tiles. “I can’t ask Martha, she’s a gem.”
He looked at his hand.
“Gods.”
He walked on.
The pool was a wreck.
Rufus sat at the edge of it, elbows on his knees, drink warm and ruined in his hand, watching the flamingo make its slow, sad circuit of the deep end.
The crack from the hallway reached him a second later.
He knew exactly what that sound meant.
He turned the glass in his hands.
“He remembered,” he told the flamingo.
The flamingo said nothing. Just sagged a little further, listing like something that had already decided to go down with dignity.
“So did I.”
He set the glass down carefully. Stood. Brushed nothing off his jeans.
“Well,” he said, “unless a succubus walks through that door in the next five minutes, I’ll be taking this meeting with my right hand.”
The flamingo wheezed.
Judgemental bastard.
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