A corner of the message rearranges itself into an inch-high fuck you; at the same time, the glass detaches itself from Jim's sleeve; while it hovers in the air a moment as though debating an attack, the bulk of the large angry word squirms into a new, more detailed alignment. Somewhat more sedate, too. He even includes punctuation.

Tell me something I don't know.

As an afterthought, fuck you brushes itself off the table and the glass drops to the floor.