Hannibal knew that he was not perfect, and acknowledged that he was privy to the same sorts of tired and angry thoughts that anyone who had been in his situation would have.
After a particularly productive therapy session, or a succesfully thrown soiree, or sometimes, briefly after catching a glimpse of himself in a mirror, he would think to himself, "If she could see me now..."
He would feel, then, something fervent and insistent in the pit of his stomach, and would recall, vividly, the sheen of her dark tresses, the peal of her laughter, the spark in her eyes as she looked, coyly, in his direction, knowing the power of the curves of her shoulders and the arch of her back which she so oft exposed in those colorful dresses of hers. He recalled her slender fingers and perfectly polished nails beckoning to him, and her glossy smile and the way she crossed her legs as she sat, and he sat beside her.
What he missed most was the exhilaration that took hold of him when her eyes would close and her lips would purse, for he knew that pure eloquence was about to flow from those lips. Everything she spoke was touched with the wisdom and grace that was so characteristic of her; and when her bright eyes would open and her lips would curl into a satisfied smile before giving him some of that endless knowledge she somehow possessed, why, it was the best feeling in the world. It was then and it was still.
Intelligence had always the most potent of aphrodisiacs.
