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You know, he says, they say trumpets will herald the end of the world.
The sounding of the clarion, the keening brass siren's call that pierces the skies and summons all to return to where they belong, in heaven or in hell or in the voids of the worlds between and beyond.
That's all crap, though.
The end of the world is a song. It's slow and it's sad, and you need a whole chorus to get all the parts and to sing it exactly right. It takes you an entire life to learn it, it takes you years of practice to do it correctly - and that's if you could even find the score.
How much have you had to drink? his companion asks.
His eyes are clear and focused, and even hold that bright spark of perfect clarity and understanding. Nothing at all. Not tonight. He leans in close and he hunches his shoulders and everything seems like a conspiracy of secrets.
I learned my part, he whispers, and it sounds as if confession in a churchyard, such an honest truth in such an honest tone, and with every crack of the tutor's reed pointer for the sharps and every snap of the ruler across my knuckles for the flats - I learned it pitch-perfect.
Your analogy's completely gotten away from you, hasn't it? his partner says, voice dull and unimpressed.
But he leans in even closer. I think you're mistaken, he breathes and his voice is suddenly dry and hoarse, because there is no analogy. This isn't poetry, nor is it drunken madness.
His eyes are narrowed and look so very dangerous, but his lips are curled into a grin; so much like the hunter that sees a doe walking right into their hidden trap. I'll sing it to you, one day. When the sun is high and the skies are blue, I'll sing you the end of the world. One part alone won't do anything, but you'll be able to feel it, he reaches out and his hand presses against his companion's chest, fingertips over their heart, right in there. And feel it all around you, as the world gives a little shudder.
And you'll know what I mean.