Her accented voice was cultured. From the way she spoke, he could tell that each word was chosen with precision. It was something he understood all too well. His blue eyes rose to meet her black, lips playful against the copper as she sipped, dark purple lipstick staining the white of her cigarette. Smoke curled around her and for a moment he could imagine her a creature of hell, a succubus writhing hypnotically. He laughed to himself, remembering the woodcuts and paintings when he was in seminary. For some reason he thought of Heironymous Bosch and his lush paintings of hellish landscapes and tortures, distended lips and widened eyes, disgorging mouths and prancing demons.
Her brief touch lingered on his skin and he flexed his hands, feeling the power and strength in them. He yearned to feel warm flesh between them.
He laughed lightly, though there was no joy in it. Only ashes. "Pleasure in the fighting of demons, huh?" By this time she had turned to face forward. He regarded her profile for a moment. There was something....different about her. A coldness, certainly, despite the heat that laced her voice. But there was something else, too, something in how she moved. Whatever it was eluded him.
He took another long pull on his drink, feeling the cloud spread in his mind, sharpening the edge of his emotion. "We are merely playthings of God, flailing about pathetically for his amusement." A memory of his youth came to him. "A child, pulling the leg off of an insect and throwing it to the ants to watch it struggle." The grasshopper had twitched desperately with its single leg as the red ants swarmed it, sharp pincers cutting through the exoskeleton and into the soft body inside. Beto had watched, unmoving, fascinated at the deft deconstruction. Soon, it was a mass of parts carried triumphantly down into the hill.
He turned to look at her, his face frank as it swept over her features again. An image came to mind. She was missing a leg and squirming, covered in honey, dark eyes looking up at him, her face filled with emotion- though what it was, he did not know. Recognition of them was a blindspot he diligently worked to overcome. He froze. It had come out of nowhere. And he was very aroused, he realized.
Something had happened. Somewhere something had changed that day with Ana. That bridge was smaller and his balance harder to hold.
He was hungry. It was the eyes. Not her eyes. God's eyes. His equal. He had to find him.
He put on affability, hand extending in greeting. "I am Beto." He paused, thinking. "You have a lovely accent. Where are you from?"
Her brief touch lingered on his skin and he flexed his hands, feeling the power and strength in them. He yearned to feel warm flesh between them.
He laughed lightly, though there was no joy in it. Only ashes. "Pleasure in the fighting of demons, huh?" By this time she had turned to face forward. He regarded her profile for a moment. There was something....different about her. A coldness, certainly, despite the heat that laced her voice. But there was something else, too, something in how she moved. Whatever it was eluded him.
He took another long pull on his drink, feeling the cloud spread in his mind, sharpening the edge of his emotion. "We are merely playthings of God, flailing about pathetically for his amusement." A memory of his youth came to him. "A child, pulling the leg off of an insect and throwing it to the ants to watch it struggle." The grasshopper had twitched desperately with its single leg as the red ants swarmed it, sharp pincers cutting through the exoskeleton and into the soft body inside. Beto had watched, unmoving, fascinated at the deft deconstruction. Soon, it was a mass of parts carried triumphantly down into the hill.
He turned to look at her, his face frank as it swept over her features again. An image came to mind. She was missing a leg and squirming, covered in honey, dark eyes looking up at him, her face filled with emotion- though what it was, he did not know. Recognition of them was a blindspot he diligently worked to overcome. He froze. It had come out of nowhere. And he was very aroused, he realized.
Something had happened. Somewhere something had changed that day with Ana. That bridge was smaller and his balance harder to hold.
He was hungry. It was the eyes. Not her eyes. God's eyes. His equal. He had to find him.
He put on affability, hand extending in greeting. "I am Beto." He paused, thinking. "You have a lovely accent. Where are you from?"