Saturday, December 08, 2007
First Meeting 8
"Don't forget to send a report about the Crom Dubh to the national data base," I called over my shoulder.
["The crying duck? Huh? Could you say that again, after you swallow the bagel?" Stevenson shouted back.]
The door of the coffee shop opened just as I shouldered against it. I lurched off-balance and buried my nose in a man's elegant tie.
"Oh shit," I said with my usual aplomb. "Sorry." I jerked away, skidded, and executed an ungainly pavane on the wet floor. [You executed a slow, stately court dance of the 16th and 17th centuries? I gotta quit relying on dictionary.com.] A pair of hands clamped on my arms to steady me. Very large hands. [Hands the size of baseball gloves.]
"My fault. Are you alright?" It had a voice as deep as a well. It was tall and broad. Beyond an aura that flared like a nervous nova, the rest didn't focus. [Wouldn't a normal nova have enough flare for this analogy?]
"No," I said, and took my awkward ass out of there.
We're saying "it" instead of "he" because she can't focus, and can't tell whether it's a man or Bigfoot.
It's not clear whether the person opening the door and the man with the elegant tie and the thing with the big hands are all the same guy. I assume the door guy and the hands guy are the same, as the hands guy says, "My fault," but did the door guy push her into the tie guy, or did he push the door into her in such a way that she fell into him? Probably it wouldn't take much to clear it up.
Posted by Evil Editor at 5:24 PM