You want me to cook breakfast? Wrench questions disbelievingly. The misunderstanding is enough to make him snort air through his nose in a derisive reaction of just how well he imagines being able to salvage things in the kitchen for Blake while the man turns away from all of this. He trails a few paces behind, following towards the back where the majority of their lessons have happened over the stovetop, armed with cartons of eggs and nonstick cookware. Wrench imagines he could manage to keep things afloat for the very start of the morning crowd, if every one of them wants slightly underseasoned scrambled eggs. He's just imagining how he might go about it when the man whirls back to face him and levels a response directly towards him that changes the course of things.
The morning lesson is certainly ruined, but something about the easy way that Blake means to put him out makes Wrench rise back into his own disbelief. Maybe because he feels a fool for the eager way he bounded into today's lesson. Perhaps because he'd expected more from the man who has been so generous with him up to this point. Anger has always made an easy cover for shame, and the embarrassment of feeling that the man's frustration comes from some deficit on Wrench's part is certainly enough to put him on the defensive. But he's confused, and the man outside the door with half a face is an eerie reminder of how nothing in this town is ever normal or comfortable.
Wrench shakes his head and gestures at the floor. Go, he signs to Blake, drawing his hand with a flourish toward the back exit. But he's already reaching for a towel to deal with the mess on the ground.
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The morning lesson is certainly ruined, but something about the easy way that Blake means to put him out makes Wrench rise back into his own disbelief. Maybe because he feels a fool for the eager way he bounded into today's lesson. Perhaps because he'd expected more from the man who has been so generous with him up to this point. Anger has always made an easy cover for shame, and the embarrassment of feeling that the man's frustration comes from some deficit on Wrench's part is certainly enough to put him on the defensive. But he's confused, and the man outside the door with half a face is an eerie reminder of how nothing in this town is ever normal or comfortable.
Wrench shakes his head and gestures at the floor. Go, he signs to Blake, drawing his hand with a flourish toward the back exit. But he's already reaching for a towel to deal with the mess on the ground.