“Just me, then, Lidewij. Scotch and water, please.”
Peter turned his attention to Gus, asking, “You know how we make a Scotch and water in this home?”
“No, sir,” Gus said.
“We pour Scotch into a glass and then call to mind thoughts of water, and then we mix the actual Scotch with the abstracted idea of water.”
Lidewij said, “Perhaps a bit of breakfast first, Peter.” He looked toward us and stage-whispered, “She thinks I have a drinking problem.”
“And I think that the sun has risen,” Lidewij responded.
Nonetheless, she turned to the bar in the living room, reached up for a bottle of Scotch, and poured a glass half full.
She carried it to him. Peter Van Houten took a sip, then sat up straight in his chair.
“A drink this good deserves one’s best posture,” he said. I became conscious of my own posture and sat up a little on the couch.
I rearranged my cannula. Dad always told me that you can judge people by the way they treat waiters and assistants.
By this measure, Peter Van Houten was possibly the world’s douchiest douche.
“So you like my book,” he said to Augustus after another sip. “Yeah,” I said, speaking up on Augustus’s behalf.
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