O you whom I often and silently come where you are,
That I may be with you;
As I walk by your side, or sit near, or remain in the
Same room with you,
Little you know the subtle electric fire that for your
Sake is playing within me.
Walt Whitman
Her presence was no more than a ghastly form on the corner of his eye. The feeling of her from his bodily memory created a metaphysical avatar that filled a space in the empty room. Her imaginary heat, her nonexistent heartbeat, her passing breath, her feather-light skin—but how could his mind tricked him this way? Was he not heartless, the cold machine with staggering indifference toward everything humane?
She certainly had a heart—he proved it himself when he rested his fingertips on her wrist and mentally recorded every beat, translated them into electronic sounds and graphic of inclining lines in his head—and it never occurred to him that she might have one before that night. She had been the trickiest puzzle, the biggest question in his life. Her mind was a powerful weapon, but, for some reason, much more unique and enchanting in a woman's body.
And yet, physical attraction was beyond him as he watched every drop of tear or tremble of eyelids or expression of pain on her face. He wondered how many smiles of hers were faked and how many of them were genuine. He wondered how many gestures of seduction were effortless and how many signs of attraction were repressed.
There was something else, he had her all figured out, but it was not enough.
Something was tearing him from the inside, telling him that if he didn't do it now, he wouldn't get a second chance. Something was guiding his steps into the night, away from the warmth of his London flat to the cold desert in the middle of nowhere. Something was driving him into action, when the world slowed down and he raised his sword…
Perhaps it was the fire in her glistening eyes when he met her unwavering stare.