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 hangman

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[ailerons]

[ Jake rolls his eyes. It's an expression that's mean but somehow goodnatured, without any real heat or focus. He doesn't even pull his sunglasses off, just sits up with a significantly easy flex of core strength, and does exactly that.

One, two, three, four. Each one poured out too quick to regarnish with a slice of lime, offered from the top, a broad hand spanning over the lip.

By three, he keeps his composure.

By four, Jake's settled back onto his chair, though he sits perpendicular, elbows on his knees. ]

I'm on vacation, [ he corrects, which is neither fitting nor true. Jake knows that it is neither fitting nor true. But that's the kind of bullshit that he isn't here to sell, the flinty undercurrent of disbelief and danger and what the fuck? that envelops him for just a second when he wakes up every morning, staring at the ugliest ceiling on the planet. Flirts with jumping over the fence again and never does, even though he's done it six, seven, eight times already. ]

More to the point, old timer, I'd say you like daiquiris. [ Pushing his Raybans up, throwing them a little haphazardly onto a little patio table. The metal clatters against the glass. Jake holds his own, many-limed, very-full, tumbler in his palm. The pitchers are more rum than anything else, really — the fruit's a misdirect. Pretty impressive he just shot back four.

Then again, ]

There is no chance in hell you've been around since '43.

[ Nothing like ripping off the bandaid pretty much immediately. There are more things in Heaven and Earth, as the saying goes. ]