It says something for the durability of this cue that it doesn't snap in half, right across the back of his neck, with the sudden pressure exerted on it.
He guesses that's a design point: a barroom pool cue really needs to be able to withstand some heavy handling and bad tempers, but he's got to admit, it would be a satisfying release. Wouldn't it? When Steve glances back, actually almost smiling, with that brush-off that isn't really a brush-off, telling her to stick around and wait for something worth complimenting, which is basically the point where Danny's brain mists into a miserable fog of hatred.
Of everything. He's not picky. The bartender, the brunette with the stupid shoes, this girl and her inviting smile, the bar, the week, the game, and Steve. Maybe especially Steve. Who is lapping this up like some rangy tomcat that just found a dish full of cream.
Shunting Danny's tone straight back into an aggravated snap, that he can't help, like the wind catching a loose sheet and tossing it up into a tree branch.
"What makes you think this is even gonna last half an hour, huh?"
Steve's really? shunting through his head, but he can't stop himself, swings the cue down from his shoulders because he is seriously going to snap it like a twig if he's not careful, braces the butt against the floor and leans on it, doing his best to ignore the way his fingers clench.
There is nothing worse than not being able to do anything, aside from fume. Helpless. Bricked in by too many factors, steam screaming in his ears and impossible to release. Feeling like a catch broken wide open, a door slamming against hinges. "Of course, you might take half an hour just to line up your shot, so what do I know?"
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branchandroot
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Date: 2012-11-27 11:06 pm (UTC)He guesses that's a design point: a barroom pool cue really needs to be able to withstand some heavy handling and bad tempers, but he's got to admit, it would be a satisfying release. Wouldn't it? When Steve glances back, actually almost smiling, with that brush-off that isn't really a brush-off, telling her to stick around and wait for something worth complimenting, which is basically the point where Danny's brain mists into a miserable fog of hatred.
Of everything. He's not picky. The bartender, the brunette with the stupid shoes, this girl and her inviting smile, the bar, the week, the game, and Steve. Maybe especially Steve. Who is lapping this up like some rangy tomcat that just found a dish full of cream.
Shunting Danny's tone straight back into an aggravated snap, that he can't help, like the wind catching a loose sheet and tossing it up into a tree branch.
"What makes you think this is even gonna last half an hour, huh?"
Steve's really? shunting through his head, but he can't stop himself, swings the cue down from his shoulders because he is seriously going to snap it like a twig if he's not careful, braces the butt against the floor and leans on it, doing his best to ignore the way his fingers clench.
There is nothing worse than not being able to do anything, aside from fume. Helpless. Bricked in by too many factors, steam screaming in his ears and impossible to release. Feeling like a catch broken wide open, a door slamming against hinges. "Of course, you might take half an hour just to line up your shot, so what do I know?"