"Yes, Jake," he added, taking a long, deliberate drag of his cigarette. The ember at the tip glowed angrily, a small, fleeting beacon in the dim light. The smoke curled lazily around his face before drifting into the crisp evening air, carrying with it a faint, acrid tang that mixed with the earthy scent of damp concrete.
"He's been quite buddy-buddy."
"How do you know?" I asked, more out of plain curiosity than genuine concern.
He exhaled slowly, the smoke escaping his lips like a whispered secret, before turning to me with a dry, almost amused expression. "I am his brother, neighbor. How would I not?" His voice was low, raspy, the kind that carried the weight of old grudges.
"No matter what terms I was with him..." He flicked the cigarette, scattering faintly glowing embers onto the ground, where they fizzled out in the faint moisture. "...I always had an eye on him."
I raised my eyebrows, unable to hide my reaction as I studied him more closely. The shadows cast by the flickering porch light danced across his face, emphasizing the hollow beneath his cheekbones and the tight set of his jaw.
His gaze shifted to me, sharp and piercing, as if daring me to press further. The faint, lingering scent of tobacco mixed with the chill of the noon air, making the moment feel heavier, more intimate than it should have been.
I looked at him from my balcony, studying his every movement with a piercing side-eye. He laughed, unaware of my gaze, and stood there, his posture casual, almost too relaxed for someone in the middle of whatever strange scenario he was living out. My eyes wandered to the strange tattoos on his arms—abstract, as if the ink had been splashed on his skin without purpose, like a chaotic painting from a mind not fully tethered to reality. The black swirls twisted and turned, giving off a sense of disorder, making it hard to figure out whether they were art or just reckless marks.
There was something fishy about him, a strange vibe in his nonchalance. But then again, family feuds were nothing new—brothers and sisters, brothers and brothers, all tangled in the same old drama. It felt repetitive, but the strange tension in his behavior kept me watching, entertained in an odd, almost amused way.
Suddenly, a voice from inside cut through the air like a whip:
"JACK!!!"
His wife, Clara, shouted from within the apartment, hurling a sock at him.
"What happened?" Jack's voice was cool, casual as he flicked the cigarette between his fingers, unaffected by the sudden outburst. "You hag."
"Whose underwear is this?" Her frown was audible even from here.
He didn't flinch. "Whose underwear?" Jack repeated, unfazed, puffing another drag. "Yours, of course. Whose else?"
I couldn't help but chuckle. My married buddy seemed oblivious to the storm brewing right in front of him, taking everything in stride with a bizarre level of detachment. It was almost like watching Cassandra in an interrogation room—calm, cool, and unaware of the disaster closing in.
Then, without warning, the underwear came flying through the air, slapping Jack square on the face. His cigarette dropped from his hand, and he bent over, fumbling to pick it up as the fabric settled around his head like some absurd crown.
"What the heck?" he grumbled, clearly bewildered.
Clara appeared from the room, stepping out onto the terrace, a kitchen knife clenched in her hand. Her eyes were wide with a mix of rage and desperation, a dangerous glint in her expression.
"I will kill you!" she hissed, her voice high-pitched, frantic.
Jack's calm façade started to crack. "Just because you found your underwear in your own house?" he said, his voice rising slightly, betraying a hint of nervousness as he peeled the red lacy fabric from his face.
"It's a small size!" she shot back, her voice hard, unwavering. "I use medium!"
The knife gleamed in the dim light, hovering dangerously between them. Clara's hand trembled with anger, but there was something more—fear, perhaps, mixed with frustration. Jack, usually the picture of relaxed arrogance, suddenly seemed smaller, domesticated, as he backed away from the blade inching closer to his neck.
"Maybe you'd lose weight?" he offered, his voice breaking, his bravado slipping entirely.
I was silent, unsure whether I should intervene or just observe from my balcony, a passive witness to this ridiculous, volatile spectacle. If things turned dreadful, what could I even do?
But Jack, in his usual calm, somehow managed to find his footing again. "Come on, Clara," he said, his voice steady, yet tinged with an almost imperceptible tremble. He reached out, large hands trembling slightly as he gently gripped her shoulders. "Think about it. We have a head detective—government official. He's right there, watching. He'll be the one to cuff you and send you straight to jail."
Clara paused, the knife hovering uncertainly. Her breath came in quick, shallow bursts, but the tension seemed to lift, just slightly. Her hands relaxed their grip on the weapon, though the fury in her eyes still burned.
Then, she glanced at me with a sharp frown, and without missing a beat, she spat, "Fuck you," before turning back to Jack with a furious glare.
Jack leaned against the balcony railing, his eyes fixed on the red lacy underwear, still clutched in his hand. He stared at it for a long moment, as if contemplating the fabric's existence, and then, with a casual shrug, muttered, "Damn, should've been careful with this underwear thing."
I couldn't help but look at him with a mixture of confusion and disbelief. His complete lack of remorse or even self-awareness added another layer to his already perplexing character. He seemed so unbothered, as if this absurd situation was just another inconvenience in his routine. I said nothing. It felt wrong to speak in a situation so volatile—words could only make things worse.
"Clara was once a snack," Jack continued, breaking the silence, his voice carrying a note of nostalgia laced with distaste. "Now she's just a bitch, barking all day."
I bristled at that, instinctively defending her, though I knew it wasn't my place. "She's still fine."
Jack smirked slightly, his gaze distant. "Nah, man. She's boring. Always bickering about everything—my job, my 'nothing' career, the house, my whole damn existence."
I didn't know how to respond. His bitterness was palpable, but I couldn't just ignore the obvious underlying issues. "Oh," I said, my voice quiet, unsure.
Then, Jack turned to face me more fully, a strange seriousness settling in his features. "I love her, man," he said, his tone almost soft, though it didn't mask the underlying frustration. "She's my wife. But... I needed a thing about escapism from her. So, I cheated."
I paused, the weight of his words sinking in. He didn't seem remorseful or torn, but rather, he had already rationalized the whole thing. It was like he was laying the foundation for some kind of twisted justification, as if cheating was the inevitable escape from the life he'd made.
So now, the husband who'd strayed had somehow found a way to justify it—a story, a narrative—woven into the fabric of his excuses. It was a fascinating bit of propaganda, a way to make himself feel better, as though the whole thing could be neatly explained and excused with just a few words.
The absurdity of the situation hit me again. But I couldn't help wondering if this was how everyone justified their missteps, their mistakes, or their darkest decisions—by spinning the truth to fit their own comfort.