Though I am not familiar with Wonder Woman, I recently learned that she spun around to change to and from her persona as a superhero. While this is a likely explanation for Brennan's sudden twirling folly, I had a more, erm, squinty theory.
It is generally understood that the earth spins in a clockwise direction on its polar axis. It is well known that that motion, over the course of about 23.934 hours, bathes the planet first in light, then plunges it into darkness. Even the youngest of grammar school scholars could tell you that that rotation is the very marker of the passing of time; each period of light and dark together yielding a single day.
But this night, oh, tonight; I am exhilarated-- blood pumping, oxygen flowing, stomache and heart competing in a floor routine in the organ olympics. Sparks--- well, sparks flying off the deadbolt as my bullet richochets off-- but that's not up for discussion. Truth is, I feel light; young. Younger than I've felt in more years than it's been since I was young.
So you can see why I wouldn't want this night to end.
And without a thought; with not even a single simple consideration, I allow my sudden youthful folly to take hold. Before I can say, 'Hey, why not?', I am spinning, spinning...
I spin counterclockwise. The science in me knows what the youth does not; they work together in my honor and favor. I spin counterclockwise, in discord with the motion of the planet. I spin, quicker and quicker as my subconscious screams, just spin, spin, that my small effort, my butterflyish force may throw the earth out of balance; knock it out of rhythm and slow the passing of this precious moment. I spin, and I spin, and I spin, and when he asks 'What the hell are you doing?', I just laugh a child's laugh.
In the afterglow of this tremendous scene, I will realise that it's completely irrational to believe that could have possibly had even the slightest effect on the steady, consistent passing of time. I'll reflect that as a hard and stolid scientist, I should have recognized that fact BEFORE I began flailing around. But for the moment, in this moment, I'll choose not to worry my oversized brain about it; I'll follow my Clark Kent off to our post 'bad date' debriefing. And I won't eat pie, and he will pretend not to know that I know he's really Superman. Because he must be. How else can you explain that he's still walking with a bullet scrape across his leg?
