#printedblues

until they've crossed the hour mark, beverly sits comfortably in anger. this feeling is a friend—the disappointment of having been forgotten or deprioritized, followed by the frustration of being questioned, bothered, and pitied by staff, and in the end the 'how dare you's; how could you waste my time? it's a flagged bit of drama, but he finds relief in the mundanity of it. they might argue, but at least he isn't dead.

at 90 minutes he thinks he must be dead. he's used the salty whale's telephone twice: first to ring the office, then to leave a message at the house, which is cut short and made more furious by the unsubtle listeners-in who know, of course, that beverly is seeing the mayor.

he finishes two appetizers for two. he bites and picks at his lower lip until it bleeds, polka-dots red a soggy cocktail napkin.

and then tom sits down in front of him as though no time has passed at all.

she stares at him for too long before speaking. in fairness, though, he stares back. only tom does it with expectation. tom does it with his eyebrows dancing on the end of marionette strings.

“beverly called.” not the office. her.

with one heavy, graceless step, she’s closed a good portion of the remaining distance between herself and tom’s desk, though she still has to stretch and lean to smack her page of handwritten notes atop it.