Her chair is uncomfortable. Frozen cactus blankets creep slowly up her feet to wrap themselves around and prick her pantalooned legs. Muscles in close proximity with her spine periodically jerk imperceptibly to the eyes of the white-bearded man as he continues his speech.
"And so it seems to me that given the established nature of such vivid articles..."
Her mind shutters and turns its attention to an orange-haired woman walking, visible on the other side of the steam-hazed window. Her coat, her and her coat, walking so straight thinking- Look at me! Look at my coat! Do you like it? I-- something is screaming from the peak of her chin-- I bought it AND it looks good on me.
White beard hairs eclipse her view and her attention wanders flippantly to the man's lips- pale, chapped, purplish slugs engaged in mammalian intercourse, covered by the too few rebellious blades of ice encrusted grass. Their pace never quickens, never alters to suit a change in passion, never collapse upon each other in an intertwined heap of gooey worm love.
Thinking of the steam-pipe by the window, her vision begins to fog. The man's lips become visible only as motion, their vague shapes exist to her by their movement and the sickeningly thick personal musk that gushes in waves to clutch her nostrils. Why am I not old? She clears her eyes and is aware that the slugs have gone to find a snail-shell big enough for two.
It was winter in the forest where she sat waiting. This was evident not by the temperature, for it was really quite warm, but rather by the shade of the trees, surrounding which were an unblemished white. The numbness in her legs led her to wonder how long she had been waiting there and where he was.
Just as the lack of feeling in her legs began to invade her heart, cherubs arrived trumpeting the warm vibrations of bliss. He arrived, chariots of birds frolicking praises of bleached pink aura around his presentable form. His delicately hairless face made a lovely frame for a smile made for pictures, each tooth individually polished- inviting- coupled with the well-manicured hands outstretched- open to sympathy and completion from her arms.
She looks up at his sterling figure and attempts to stand. She doesn't move. Her eyes jerk, almost unwillingly, to her legs embedded in a chair she can't feel. She feels her heart shiver and pitch into a slight, non-medical, convulsion as if its throb lent a share of her vision to the two foul, bloodless worms- dead from lack of use. They shake slightly in time with her heart and then stop. She struggles.
"WHY DID YOU AGE WITHOUT ME?" her legs leap into spasmodic rebirth as she flies from the wood and chair towards the droning maggoty beard and its ceaseless, timeless motion.
Rodger unconsciously feels briefly the ice-white hairs on his chin and stares, attempting to recover the sudden change in his lecture topic.