Silence
"Well Roger, what now?" she asked.
"Right now you and I pay a little visit to Mr. Wise."
It wasn't as hard as he'd thought to keep one eye on the road and one on her. He needed to keep an eye on her to be certain she was still there. If he had looked straight ahead, he would have sworn he was alone in the car.
Humans, he realized, were noisy by nature. They were restless. They shifted, trying to find correct stations of karma where they reclined; the fabric of their clothes shifted and sighed. They wet their lips, soft flicks of the tongue. They inhaled, exhaled, sighed.
That was why R. Dorothy Wayneright could never be truly human. She was perfect in every way, right down to staying perfectly still. As he'd told her while painting her, she beat all the other models hands down.
"Why so quiet?" he asked her. She'd been unusually expressive in her thoughts on Francis Wise's eyes and the secret they held. Now she was still as stone.
She did move at the question, to turn her head towards him. "Pardon?"
"You're so quiet. Why?"
She stared at him for a moment. "Sometimes...there is nothing to say."
He turned his eyes back to the road, watching the bare branches of the trees claw the night sky, the moon wandering into their clutch to become trapped.
She broke the quiet with an unusual murmur.
"Perhaps, Roger Smith, you should enjoy the silence."
He cast a glance at her, then back to the road, chasing the headlights to their destination.
So she would be all right. That was a relief. It had been worth not swapping out her memory circuits to hear her latest question about love, although it had made him as awkward as a schoolboy when she had asked.
Night had fallen; he was running his fingers through his damp hair and puzzling over that question when he saw her pause once again at the painting.
He cringed inwardly. The painting was awful, and he knew it. He'd never expected to make a living at such a thing. When she had asked to model for him, he'd expected her to use it as another excuse to ridicule his imperfection, but she had said nothing.
He found her at her usual perch on the balcony. Since Perot, she spent a lot of time out there. Her legs dangled over the rail. She was incredibly still.
He leaned back against the rail, next to her.
She looked at him, at his wet hair. "You will catch a cold." Perhaps he imagined that her monotone voice held a note of disapproval.
"It's a nice night," he countered simply.
"Yes," she agreed absently, for once, "it is."
Did she sit out here to wonder? To dream? Did she dream?
The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he had never looked at things from Dorothy's angle. He stood beside the piano while she sat on the bench and played. He drove the Griffin; she rode in the passenger seat. He was the painter and she the model.
She was making the effort to understand him better. He'd never given her the same chance. Now was as good a time as any to start.
He vaulted easily up to the rail to sit beside her, his own legs dangling.
"What are you doing?" she asked, almost in surprise, or as close to surprise as she could get.
"Enjoying the silence," he said simply, looking first at her, then to the moon.
********
I'm starting to sound like Roger: Serena's rule number one-Feedback is greatly craved, but no unreasonable ranting; be constructive, okay?
"Well Roger, what now?" she asked.
"Right now you and I pay a little visit to Mr. Wise."
It wasn't as hard as he'd thought to keep one eye on the road and one on her. He needed to keep an eye on her to be certain she was still there. If he had looked straight ahead, he would have sworn he was alone in the car.
Humans, he realized, were noisy by nature. They were restless. They shifted, trying to find correct stations of karma where they reclined; the fabric of their clothes shifted and sighed. They wet their lips, soft flicks of the tongue. They inhaled, exhaled, sighed.
That was why R. Dorothy Wayneright could never be truly human. She was perfect in every way, right down to staying perfectly still. As he'd told her while painting her, she beat all the other models hands down.
"Why so quiet?" he asked her. She'd been unusually expressive in her thoughts on Francis Wise's eyes and the secret they held. Now she was still as stone.
She did move at the question, to turn her head towards him. "Pardon?"
"You're so quiet. Why?"
She stared at him for a moment. "Sometimes...there is nothing to say."
He turned his eyes back to the road, watching the bare branches of the trees claw the night sky, the moon wandering into their clutch to become trapped.
She broke the quiet with an unusual murmur.
"Perhaps, Roger Smith, you should enjoy the silence."
He cast a glance at her, then back to the road, chasing the headlights to their destination.
So she would be all right. That was a relief. It had been worth not swapping out her memory circuits to hear her latest question about love, although it had made him as awkward as a schoolboy when she had asked.
Night had fallen; he was running his fingers through his damp hair and puzzling over that question when he saw her pause once again at the painting.
He cringed inwardly. The painting was awful, and he knew it. He'd never expected to make a living at such a thing. When she had asked to model for him, he'd expected her to use it as another excuse to ridicule his imperfection, but she had said nothing.
He found her at her usual perch on the balcony. Since Perot, she spent a lot of time out there. Her legs dangled over the rail. She was incredibly still.
He leaned back against the rail, next to her.
She looked at him, at his wet hair. "You will catch a cold." Perhaps he imagined that her monotone voice held a note of disapproval.
"It's a nice night," he countered simply.
"Yes," she agreed absently, for once, "it is."
Did she sit out here to wonder? To dream? Did she dream?
The more he thought about it, the more he realized that he had never looked at things from Dorothy's angle. He stood beside the piano while she sat on the bench and played. He drove the Griffin; she rode in the passenger seat. He was the painter and she the model.
She was making the effort to understand him better. He'd never given her the same chance. Now was as good a time as any to start.
He vaulted easily up to the rail to sit beside her, his own legs dangling.
"What are you doing?" she asked, almost in surprise, or as close to surprise as she could get.
"Enjoying the silence," he said simply, looking first at her, then to the moon.
********
I'm starting to sound like Roger: Serena's rule number one-Feedback is greatly craved, but no unreasonable ranting; be constructive, okay?