Page 72 - WTP Vol. VIII #4

Plus One (continued from preceding page)
ing to him beneath his jacket. He had never been an effective liar and he sensed that Kent had that sixth sense for spotting vulnerability, for knowing when an evasion was being forged.
“Oh, come on, Judd.” Kent said, with just a trace of amusement. “I heard that story about you and her. Fantastic. Don’t worry—it’s all water under the bridge. But Monica told me everything. We’ve all done it but maybe you might have hired a troubadour or a singing telegram.”
Kent managed to conceal his teeth this time but the brunt of his derision was like a kind of paralyzing ray that had frozen not just Judd’s body but his tongue and vocal cords. In any other setting, he might have coldcocked him but in such a sacred place, he had just enough poise to reduce his wrath to a fine tremor.
“A misunderstanding I suppose,” Judd said, looking
for any lane amid the throng, any plausible exit.
“You’re a good sport,” Kent replied, softening his tone and drawing a little closer. “Monica bet me you’d deny it.” Again something in the jagged shape of Kent’s incisors lent him a lupine cast, yet this time there may have been a trace of sympathy in it, a certain weariness at having to go in for the kill. “You should join us at The Fountain. Great place—no cover. We’ve been meeting up there every six weeks or so for years. Our little division of the Anarchists.”
In that instant, Judd knew that Kent had supplanted him in the group long ago, shared confidences he would never be privy to, that he had been shunted to the far distant borders of friendship. The process had begun with the letter but had not stopped there. A racetrack held only so much room and there was always a horse charging up on the rail. There was always a faster, more savage boxer, another howl in
65
At Winters End
acrylic 12'' x 30'' By Juli Snyder