Re: The New Year
Eames hadn't picked out the cabin. Nor the fixtures and fittings and furniture. All of it had been selected by someone who wished to make abundantly clear the amount of cash they had and their discernment of Eames' tastes - or at least, those tastes he made publicly available. It was a grand and glorious exercise in repression, darling, not the self-repression of guilty desires, but deliberate and cold contemplation of how best to remind a man he was fucked over his morning cup of tea.
But that was beside the point. The pan was in the sink and the steak was on the floor and the welt of puffy skin, white-waxy was raised on the fleshy inside of his thumb and forefinger. The water streamed off his hand, cold as the pipes under the house and no, he didn't throw the steak out of the window. There were a lot of windows in the cabin, all of them floor length and he felt for a moment, underneath the anger and frustration and annoyance (threw the pan of mushrooms into the sink with poor grace) he prickled briefly with the sensation of being watched.
Eames moved slowly. There was an oiled quality to movement when you were under surveillance, and he went for the dishcloth and soaked it whilst casually taking in the view through all the various glass fronts and sides to the house.