Belisarius
Bluelighter
He's going to knock.
The scene is set: the hand is raised, the fist clenched. The dream is set: a smile, a soft hand in his, a whiff of perfume beside him in a theater or restaurant or park bench, breath condensing in the night, drifting like the time that is never enough.
His breath blows away before the paneled oak. His hand is raised, and he can see his watch. His watch occupies him for some time, and time is short. He steps back, turns down the short walkway to the street, hears the northern wind sigh in the trees for an instant before he gets back into his vehicle (Colder now, becoming one with the night) and picks out the phone book, thumbs through it in the pale streetlight, looking for someone else, someone whose door he can raise a hand before and knock, before he sees and knows that there is never enough time.
The scene is set: the hand is raised, the fist clenched. The dream is set: a smile, a soft hand in his, a whiff of perfume beside him in a theater or restaurant or park bench, breath condensing in the night, drifting like the time that is never enough.
His breath blows away before the paneled oak. His hand is raised, and he can see his watch. His watch occupies him for some time, and time is short. He steps back, turns down the short walkway to the street, hears the northern wind sigh in the trees for an instant before he gets back into his vehicle (Colder now, becoming one with the night) and picks out the phone book, thumbs through it in the pale streetlight, looking for someone else, someone whose door he can raise a hand before and knock, before he sees and knows that there is never enough time.
