[ with weyland in nyc ]

[tragic_mask]

They step through the door, and find themselves on the cracked sidewalk outside of a lively bar. A sign glows: "Blue Owl."

It's nighttime, but the city still glows with all kinds of light, and shakes with the noise of honking, shouting, music, the clinking of glasses, all blending together into the cacophony and symphony of the city.

Melpomene looks around. "Well, we're back... Right where I started."

Comments

[mechanicalswans]

"But your singing would have to be much more pleasant to listen to than mine. I don't think it would be possible for you to share it too much or too easily--it would be a shame not to share it. A tragedy, even."

[tragic_mask]

"Mmh." She leans back. "But wouldn't not sharing be more in my nature, then?"

[mechanicalswans]

"We have ways of making you sing," he says with a bit of a smirk (and a much heavier accent than usual).

The calf-massage is drifting steadily into a knee-massage.

"I do hope that sometime I will get to hear you sing," he adds more seriously, back to his normal tone. "But only if you want to, of course."

[tragic_mask]

"Oh, well, I'll keep both of those statements in mind."

[mechanicalswans]

"I'm sure you will," he says softly, glancing up at her. "Are you having a good time? I can stop, if you want."

[tragic_mask]

"I'm enjoying myself immensely, now that you mention it," she says, as softly. "Don't stop."

[mechanicalswans]

"You may have to come a bit closer, then," he murmurs, and motions for her to slide onto his lap. "If you want to."

[tragic_mask]

She scoots up close, and puts an arm around his neck. "Close enough?"

[mechanicalswans]

"Beautiful," he says, resting one hand on her knee and his other arm around her waist. "I think 'the perfect height' will have to go on that list twice..."

And if she doesn't object or back away, he is leaning in to kiss her.

[tragic_mask]

She has no objections at this time, so she says, "This may turn out to be quite a long list if you keep repeating things," and then kisses back.

[mechanicalswans]

He tastes of alcohol and smoke, not surprisingly.

And he is a bit nervous, having her so close--somehow, it feels closer and more vulnerable to him now than being together in the lake or in his room. He isn't sure why.

Very pleasant, though.

"It was always going to be a long list. A little longer... well, I don't think anyone ever objected to a few more compliments."

[tragic_mask]

Not surprisingly, she does too.

"I'm certainly not an exception. I love compliments."

[mechanicalswans]

"I would imagine you've got quite a backlog of them to catch up on--if you don't have company much, if you spend a lot of time away from people, you will not have been getting the compliments in that time. And I, spending time away from people also, have a lot of compliments to give. So there we are."

He smiles.

[tragic_mask]

"Impeccable logic," she says, following as well as she can.

[mechanicalswans]

"Of all the compliments you have ever gotten," he says, "which was your favorite? So I know what I need to measure up to. Though of course I would not say one if it were not true and sincere."

[tragic_mask]

"Oh, right. Of course."

She thinks. "Well, I was once written a sonnet which was, essentially, one big compliment. I mean, I've been written sonnets before, but this one... seemed extraordinary. Something to the effect of seeing his soul mirrored in my shining eyes. Of course, I'm always drawn to the poetic."

[mechanicalswans]

"You must have poetry written to you a lot, then?" he asks. "I can see that you would inspire it... and not just the tragic kind, not directly, though there would probably be a note of tragedy in any romantic poem to you. The unattainable, the far out of any normal man's league."

[tragic_mask]

"Well, yes, these things do happen. I suppose they sense that I'm a goddess and try to capture some of my essence in poetry. But none really do a complete job, pardon my egotism."

[mechanicalswans]

"I think that a god, or goddess, should properly be adored in some form other than their chosen one. Honor them by working in their element, but when giving a particular effort as an offering... well, you would have the same critical eye for poetry that I do for metalsmithing. I prefer my offerings to be in other forms, and I imagine you would also, as far as that goes."

[tragic_mask]

"True. I may accept the poem, but in many ways there will always be a part of me that gets the urge to underline in red pen."

[mechanicalswans]

"Do you have a preferred method of reverence, then?" he asks with a smile. "Personally, I enjoy music, or a good meal, or an entertaining story. The intangible, the impermanent. Once it has been given, it is gone, and cannot be studied later for flaws."

[tragic_mask]

"Well... I like the tangible, actually. Things that can be... touched. Or the act of touching itself. Worship of that sort."

[mechanicalswans]

"You are in luck again, then," he says, resting his chin on her shoulder. "Those happen to be things I am very good at... and you are inspiring me at this very moment. But I'm sure you could tell that."

[tragic_mask]

"Perhaps," she says, unhelpfully.

[mechanicalswans]

"A man likes to be inspired," he says. "He never reaches greater heights, never has cause to do such wonderful things, as when he has a woman to do them for. All great things that have ever been done, have been done with such inspiration as I have right now."