[ 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]

He takes her hand, to get a closer look at it.

"I find myself drawn to the gardening products, and for a while I start to think that maybe if I bought the tiller or mower or whatever it is they are advertising, I would do more gardening. But then I have to remind myself that the reason I don't do any gardening is that I live on a second-floor apartment and have no yard."

[tragic_mask]

"That's generally a valid reason not to garden, I've found. Or own pets any larger than a goldfish."

If he looks closely enough... well, he still won't find anything, because Melpomene's skin is remarkably smooth for such an old person. She has no interesting scars to show for the story.

She turns her hand so that it's grasping his, and begins to pull him towards the bedroom door.

[mechanicalswans]

"I have mechanical pets," he says, "fish and birds. They are much easier to clean up after, and if I am called away unexpectedly I don't have to worry about feeding them."

He lets her pull him along.

"You have very nice hands, you know."

[tragic_mask]

"I try," she says, faking modesty, and ponders as she pushes on the door, which is already ajar.

"An actual gold fish would be an interesting pet."

[mechanicalswans]

"I like working with bronze--you can get such a range of color. Either lifelike, or... more fanciful, more colorful than the real thing."

He glances into the room.

[tragic_mask]

"Well, I won't question that you know what you're talking about."

Other than-- well, more books stacked around the edges-- the room is fairly muted, with a small bed and nightstand. There's a window, too, which has a view down the street.

[mechanicalswans]

"You have a nice room," he says, reaching to unfasten his tie. "Does reading help with the insomnia?"

[tragic_mask]

"It passes the time," she says. "And there's always more books. Mostly bad, yes, but sometimes there's a gem amidst the glass."

[mechanicalswans]

"I don't read very much anymore," he says. "Not for any particular reason, I just... rarely get round to it, I guess. But I do like history books and poetry."

[tragic_mask]

She goes to the window, pushes it further open to let in the breeze.

"I'm all for history, but mostly through poetry. Maybe because I'd be out of business if everyone believed art to be useless as a method of learning."

[mechanicalswans]

He chuckles quietly, starting in on the long process of undressing again. "I wouldn't want to live in a world without art--I think a world like that would be devoid of gods, if not devoid of life altogether. But I still prefer poetry, spoken or sung, to written prose. It's what I grew up with."

[tragic_mask]

"Poetry is often meant to be heard," she says. "I don't blame you."

[mechanicalswans]

"I don't trust people who don't like poetry," he says. "It marks a fundamental lack of... something, in the soul. It's a dependable way to judge people."

[tragic_mask]

"And I thought it was just me being biased," she says with a smile.

[mechanicalswans]

"If you're biased, then so am I," he says with a chuckle. "But biased doesn't necessarily mean wrong. A man with no love of poetry--what does he love? What could he? There's no romance, there's nothing greater than the simple physical reality of what is. No aspiration for more than that."

[tragic_mask]

"I've met those who are content with that. Or believe they are."

[mechanicalswans]

"I don't trust them."

He slides his shirt and jacket off at the same time, takes his pocketwatch from the jacket pocket and folds the clothes neatly.

"I have met people who... they were existing, but hardly living. It is a crime against what they are supposed to be."

[tragic_mask]

"Too bad there's not life police for that," she murmurs. "Beat you up if you waste the time you have."

[mechanicalswans]

"Isn't that our job?" he asks with a faint smile, as he leans down to take off shoes and socks. "To remind people how short life is, how quickly things can fall apart, and how they need to live while they can."

[tragic_mask]

"Yes," she says, mouth quirking. "But I have to persuade more quietly than a punch."

[mechanicalswans]

"Eh, punches," he says with a vague gesture. "Words are much more effective, and preferable. In most circumstances, they can't get you arrested, either. You can take them anywhere, they can fit in a pocket or expand to fill an entire stadium. Your weapons are better than mine."

[tragic_mask]

"Though you seem to wield mine better than I might wield yours."

And after that tongue-twister, she flops down on the bed.

[mechanicalswans]

"I imagine I've been called upon to use yours more than you have mine," he says with a smile, slipping his trousers off and moving toward the bed. "If you'd have interest in learning mine, I'm sure lessons could be arranged, but you seem to do quite well keeping yourself in one piece."

[tragic_mask]

"I suppose my sisters and I were made that way because we were meant to be ornamental," she says, following.

[mechanicalswans]

"And I was not," he says. "If I keep my scars hidden I am not displeasing to look at, but of the two of us, I would wager, most people would rather look at you. Do you have a side of the bed that you prefer?"