@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.
"what—" the rage climbs again from his feet, where his dread had tamped it down, and stands all of the little hairs in its path. "for fuck's sake, tom." you knew i was here. "you couldn't have asked anyone to fucking phone me?"
