An Instant
by
Gethsemane

Two slivers of obsidian stare at her from across the room,
gaze and bore into her like drops of icy rain.
Rain which strikes her face hard, stinging, before sliding
wetly, tickling down her cheek like tears escaping from
the unrelenting eyes.

Her own eyes, cast down, studying the pile of papers,
papers with words on them that she knows by heart.
Heart beating wildly, pounding in her ears, in her throat,
as she studies, determined not to look up, not to show the
weakness which causes her breath to quicken and catch and
her face to burn.

But her weakness is far stronger than her smoldering
eyes which begin to rise, russet speckled with fire.
Fire which churns and mixes until the end result is a spicy
cinnamon which defies her logic, her desire, her cool exterior
as the traitors meet the dark gems which summon them
with icy daggers.

Cinnamon heat converges with icy obsidian in a flash; the spice
flickers and melts the stones into pools, glistening oil.
Oil which is dark as pitch, yet reflects the warm orange glow
of the hearth and the candle flames which dance under simmering
liquid incense. Time ceases, merging the minutes into hours the
way fire mingles with water.

Feathers drop; ink spills over yellowing pages and pools onto the
heavy dark umber table, seeping into the grain of the wood.
Wood which darkens with now apparent spider veins, yet still stands
as a barrier between the two. Smiles, slight but warm, flash for an
instant before fading as papers are gathered and exits are made
through separate doors.