Re: [jude & hannah: tea]
Jude hadn't thought about a eulogy. He'd thought about gravestones, piled with little pebbles and the lull of sung Hebrew, he hadn't thought about a crowd of mourners to smile or laugh or weep at his own will. Jude didn't think often of death and when he did, it was a spreading pool of blood on Persian carpet if you please, and no thank you, never and not at all. Nightmares soaked that memory, and the sensation of clammy claustrophobia and no, not at all, not ever. But he listened as Hannah pronounced her own ending and the semi-colon that continued it into death, laughing ever-laughing over her tea-cup.
He had an idea of his own disposition when happy and when melancholy, begging pardon but con artists made studies of themselves in the mirror and what better feint than oneself's own self, at odds with the mood that lay beneath the outward mood? So Jude knew well enough that his eyes lit with delight and that the smile he gave her in exchange for the complement crinkled at the corners of self-same eyes. "Tree-climbing, whenever the lady desires," and he bowed without bowing at the table top, and nearly knocked over a tea-spoon.
She wore a smile like a ribbon, and the little boy gazed at her as openly as all little boys do before they grow up and learn dignity. "That sounds like a plan, sunshine. Ren and holidays," and he'd an idea that Christmas conducted in coffee shops was better than Christmas conducted solo and in rooms all his own.
"It's lovely to have met you, Hannah. Take care of the stitches as you go," and he held up hand in passing wave, before gathering up books for purchase and the way back home.