[ 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]

"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?"

[tragic_mask]

She thinks about it for a moment. "Left, I suppose."

[mechanicalswans]

"Mind you," he says with a nod, climbing onto the bed and sliding over to the right side, "I have very little use for people who are physically attractive but cannot do anything useful. But I see no need for deliberate ugliness when beauty is easy to achieve."

[tragic_mask]

"Yes, that's valid. I much prefer being useful to being an ornament."

She slips onto the remaining space.

[mechanicalswans]

"Fair enough," he says, slipping his pocketwatch under the pillow. "One, you have little control over--anything can be pleasant to look at. But the other, that takes some measure of merit, of talent."

He looks over at her. "Do you mind... physical contact while sleeping? It keeps some people awake, but I find it comforting."

[tragic_mask]

"No, I don't. Mind, I mean."

[mechanicalswans]

"Good," he says, sliding closer--right up against her, in fact. It does reassure him while he is sleeping, having someone close. It's something his mechanical woman cannot replicate, for all her artistry--the feeling of having a living, breathing person beside him, warm and not ticking.

[tragic_mask]

And she normally sleeps--when she does-- with a draft of air on her back. It's a nice change.

Her eyes close, restfully. "You're a good blanket," she murmurs. "I mean, you're good for other things, but being a blanket is at the top of the list."

[mechanicalswans]

"I shall put that on my resume," he murmurs, with a smile, "right between 'drives manual cars' and 'can reach things on the top shelf.' You're very pleasant and warm, yourself."