A Take Unto Consideration

Sometimes, active listening is the greatest gift you can give.

Harumph. That was the sound the chair made, not the man. Though, truth be told, he looked the sort to make it too—thick-jawed, heavy in his coat, spectacles fogged from the sudden warmth of the tavern. The chair gave its complaint as he dropped into it, and he glared at the wood as though daring it to repeat itself.
—They felt it with him.—

No one turned. A room full of ears had learned to listen without flinching, to keep their heads down, to pretend nothing ever arrived here that wasn’t meant to.
—They leaned in.—

The man cleared his throat, opened his mouth, and then… harumphed again. This time it was all his own.
—They mirrored the pause.—

The Tavernier asked, "Sir, from whence and what did you come?"
—They already knew.—

The man grumbled, as he perpetually cleaned his spectacles. "Sir, I'll have you know, I come from the torrent. This is an amicable escape you offer here."
—They watched.—

The Tavernier cocked an eye, leaned forward and whispered, "Sir, a torrent? The weather outside I find more amicable, as you say, than this smoke-ridden establishment. Sir, you are being ambiguous at best."
—They shifted slightly.—

The man snorted, a gust through his crooked nose. He polished a stubborn circle on the lens, though they were already spotless.
—They observed quietly.—

“Ambiguous?” he muttered. “You’ll call it worse once you’ve seen it. The torrent leaves no gentleman untouched, no maiden unweathered. You think rain is the measure of storm, Tavernier? Harumph. The torrent is not wet—it is hungry.”
—They sensed the urgency.—

A murmur rustled the tables nearby, boots scuffing, mugs set down with too much care. The smoke hung still as curtains, and the Tavernier did not blink.
—They waited.—

“Sir,” he said softly, “you speak as though it follows you.”
—They knew it did not.—

The man stopped polishing. His spectacles dangled in his hand. He gave a smile too sour to sweeten.
—They held the moment.—

“It does.”
—They acknowledged it silently.—

“Sir, although you wear the guise and demeanor of someone, whom to some, might consider hard boiled, I fail to buy stock in your flair. Unless the torrent is of clients with legs up to here, please discard the façade, Sir, and come forth post haste. What vexes you?”
—They leaned closer.—

The man slid his spectacles back on, though he hadn’t the courage to look through them just yet. He kept his eyes low, staring at the ripple of ale that quivered in his untouched mug.
—They stood with him.—

“What vexes me?” he said at last, the words rising like gravel pushed uphill. “Sir, what vexes me is not a client, nor a lady, nor the tedium of law or ledger. It is a river that runs uphill, foaming with voices not its own. It spills over fences, climbs walls, drowns hearthfires. A man steps into it thinking he’ll wash his boots and comes out with half his memory gone.”
—They felt the strain.—

The Tavernier gave a short laugh, though it was all in the throat. He leaned on the counter with both hands, palms spread, nails darkened by smoke and stain.
—They allowed themselves a small connection.—

“Sir,” he said, “if that torrent is what you fled, then you’ve no business drinking here. Ale is but another current. Men drown easy in both.”
—They sensed the guidance.—

“Sir, you talk like a man whose dwelt too long in a shanty, babble like you just read the Odyssey, and present yourself like you thought you were patronising a speakeasy. I really have no fortitude for one of the trifecta, let alone the three of them married. Go on then, sir. Earn your mug. What woebegone watery apparitions haunt you?”
—They leaned in.—

The man’s fingers tightened around the mug, though he hadn’t tasted a drop. His lips worked against words as if they’d lodged in his teeth.
—They stayed with him.—

“Apparitions, you say,” he muttered, “but they’re flesh enough to bruise a man, though they leave no mark the morning after. They rise out of the current, faces half-remembered, half-invented. My brother’s laugh, my mother’s hymn, a creditor’s curse—it all comes foaming at once, and none of it mine to keep. A man may clutch at the torrent all night, yet his arms close on nothing but wet air. And still, sir, it stains.”
—They bore witness.—

He drew his spectacles down the bridge of his nose, peering now, sharp as if to measure the Tavernier himself.
—They noticed, quietly attentive.—

“I’ve seen stout men go to it smiling, swearing it was a comfort. They came back hollow, mouths still grinning, though their eyes were clean wiped, as though no memory had ever lit them. Harumph. I’d sooner have smoke in my lungs than that emptiness in my head.”
—They felt the despair.—

The Tavernier held his stare for a long moment, then gave a nod slow as a tolling bell.
—They mirrored it.—

“Sir,” he said, “you’ve earned your mug. Drink it. And pray the torrent doesn’t come knocking for its debt while you sup.”
—They settled back. The river could finally rest.—