tragic_mask | (no subject)

"And turns you into a portly middle-aged man-- the sort you might be, if you were the vacationing lovebird you pretend to be, and not yourself.

"No," she says contemplatively, "It has to be the cigarettes."

"I thought I was angular and scholarly, myself," he says, amused. "With unruly hair, and... leather patches on the elbows of my jackets, you know."

She pictures it.

"In college, no doubt. Being the intellectual giant you were, of course, quibbling over the translation of Faust. But... later, you clearly let yourself go, and sat by the fire every evening smoking a pipe and reading the news."

The image is a little dated, perhaps. But it's the one she has.

"I was a coffeehouse intellectual, of course," he says, "more fond of proclaiming and expounding than attending classes. It's certainly not my fault if metabolism at forty isn't what it was at twenty..."

She stops in the middle of the street to look him up and down.

"Yeah, sure it isn't," she says-- with a straight face-- then marches onward.

He chuckles, moving to follow her. "Walking isn't as easy as it was when I was young, but at least I have upper-body strength. That counts for something."

"I suppose. Better than letting those biceps and triceps go to waste."

"The better to carry you around with, my dear. Light as you are, but I could carry you for hours... show me a twenty-year-old who could do the same, and I will fight him for you."

"I'll have to test that," she says, lifting a brow. "Two hours, let's say. Now all I need to do is find a twenty-year-old willing to do this-- or try-- for the sake of your ego. Not an easy task, I think."

"You know just how to treat a man's ego," he murmurs. "I knew there was a reason I liked you."

"Yes..." she says, with a grim face. "I kiss the boys, then make them cry."

"And how do you treat the men?" he asks, with a small smile.

"You'll just have to figure it out for yourself," she says, with a lofty eyebrow.

"I look forward to it," he says, glancing around at their surroundings.

She looks around, too. "Are we anywhere near the hotel? I feel I didn't pay close enough attention, the first time around..."

"A few blocks, I think," he says. "Uphill, though. We'll get there."

"Somehow things look so different when you're being carried downhill," she says, and smiles.

"If you'd like to be carried back uphill, it could be arranged," he smiles. "We could also find a taxi, I imagine."

"I can handle it, I swear. It's all part of roughing it," she says wryly.

"There's roughing it, and then there's roughing it," he says. "No need to do the one when only the other is called for."

"Well, this is probably not even the first one," she says. "I've hiked some pretty fierce mountains in my time, you know."

"Barefoot?" he asks with a chuckle. "Or was this after your wild youth? I've done it barefoot, but not in the winter."

"I've never hiked a snowy mountain barefoot. But... for the grassy Mediterranean mountains, I had a strict no-shoes policy."

"We'll stay away from the snow, for now. I need to be reminded sometimes that there are other seasons."

"You're with the right lady, then," she says. "I much prefer the warm."