§ ≡ A section of The Pilot's Saga { Chapter 2.2 « Chapter 2.3 » Chapter 3.1 }
This room they sometimes share has nothing in it besides: a bed (of course); a small table and chairs; in the part they call the living room, a standing lamp that throws off a soft half-light beyond its blue shade, plus an oriental-type rug on the floor; and, in the part they call the corner nook, a desk beneath a small window (outside of which from a great distance, or so it would seem, dangles the skyline).
To him, this room they sometimes share is like a meadow or a playing field from his fabled youth — fields upon which he excelled, without anything that seemed or felt like effort, for no other purpose than the self-contained pleasure of physical banter. There were times now, in the outside world, when he felt the sort of rush that comes with effortless physical grace and power (just as he was used to as a youth), but never without it being tied to some greater good. Only in here would he allow himself to revel in it for its own sake.
Watching him as he rises from the bed, she recites to herself ... "in action how like an angel". She is gifted in the art of surreptitious observation (a preternatural gift that, through practice and a dedication to achievement, she has transformed into something else altogether). But in fact, with a wave of his magician's wand, he renders her gift unnecessary, because he shows her everything that needs to be shown. His gestures are precise, as if directed by some celestial mechanism — suspension wires from on high. The motion of one of his fingers on one of his hands (as he raises it to point or to tap) holds more of the divine spark than one thousand and one Sistine Chapels.
He turns towards her and their eyes meet. Somewhere in the back of her mind she thinks to herself, now it's time to practice other gifts ... different, but no less important. He kisses her. She melds towards him, uninhibited; ready.
This room they sometimes share has nothing in it besides: a bed (of course); a small table and chairs; in the part they call the living room, a standing lamp that throws off a soft half-light beyond its blue shade, plus an oriental-type rug on the floor; and, in the part they call the corner nook, a desk beneath a small window (outside of which from a great distance, or so it would seem, dangles the skyline).
To him, this room they sometimes share is like a meadow or a playing field from his fabled youth — fields upon which he excelled, without anything that seemed or felt like effort, for no other purpose than the self-contained pleasure of physical banter. There were times now, in the outside world, when he felt the sort of rush that comes with effortless physical grace and power (just as he was used to as a youth), but never without it being tied to some greater good. Only in here would he allow himself to revel in it for its own sake.
Watching him as he rises from the bed, she recites to herself ... "in action how like an angel". She is gifted in the art of surreptitious observation (a preternatural gift that, through practice and a dedication to achievement, she has transformed into something else altogether). But in fact, with a wave of his magician's wand, he renders her gift unnecessary, because he shows her everything that needs to be shown. His gestures are precise, as if directed by some celestial mechanism — suspension wires from on high. The motion of one of his fingers on one of his hands (as he raises it to point or to tap) holds more of the divine spark than one thousand and one Sistine Chapels.
He turns towards her and their eyes meet. Somewhere in the back of her mind she thinks to herself, now it's time to practice other gifts ... different, but no less important. He kisses her. She melds towards him, uninhibited; ready.
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