Michael Malone - Weebly

mock lechery, such parodic ogling of pectorals and
penises could not be tried on Jonathan Fields, who had
(thank God, thought Saar) no notion of the game's style.
So the headmaster stopped talking, noticing when he
did so that, probably as a result of his drinking since
dawn, he had almost no sense of gravity (not a quip)
and was in fact out driving illegally while both drunk and
hung over and on the verge of slobbery tears.
The curate looked at Saar, leaning elegantly against
the arm of the Edwardian love seat. A handsome man in
handsome clothes who seemed to have the secret of
how to hold his glass, cross his feet, look at a picture,
light a cigarette as if the possibility that he could slop
sherry on his shirt, expose a hole in the crotch seam of
his pants, light his filter, or burn a hole in the couch (all
of these, coincidentally, faux pas actually committed by
Saar at some time or another) had not penetrated the
man's perfect self-confidence. No, Saar sat there just as
Jonathan, in daydreams, had often imagined his doing.
But suddenly his face went wrong, the lines drew
tight, and when he spoke the words were not at all
those that Jonathan had often written for him.