|Sense and Sensibility
Disclaimer: No, they're not mine, and if they were, I'd be too blissfully exhausted to write anything. No money has changed hands--not that anyone would buy this. Rated, ummm, well, NOT G, not really, but nothing graphic is going on here. Oh, come on, read it anyway. <g> Comments and feedback are invited--nay--sought.
Thanks to Mairead Triste for the title suggestion, with apologies to Jane Austen.
<Slow pan of the loft from the elevator>
The loft is bathed in candlelight. The CD player endlessly repeats Johnny Mathis' Greatest Hits. Look at meee...I'm as helpless as a kitten up a treeee...
Chairs are overturned at the bar. To the right, the kitchen tells the story of an orgy of taste thrills. The refrigerator door is ajar; a gooey mixture of cherry Jello and whipped cream is slicked across the floor. A jar of crunchy peanut butter sits open on the counter, with one jalapeno pepper sticking out of it. Ice cubes are spilling from the bin onto the floor, as the icemaker dumps another dozen of them out like clockwork.
On the counter, the candles flicker. There are two nearly empty wine bottles. An expensive claret is spilled across what is left of the damask tablecloth that clings to the counter. Broken china and crystal carpet the floor. Past the counter, the furniture in the living area is awry; the couch is standing on its end, and one of the river rocks lies in pieces. Chessmen cover the floor like Legos. Behind the dressing screen, smoke is rising from something. One of the bookshelves has been knocked over, and "The Gay Man's Kama Sutra" lies on the floor, open to page 271, The Ouroboros.
There is a heave of clothing through the loft--coats neatly hung on the coatrack, shoes kicked into various corners, a path of sweaters and vests, socks and t-shirts. The ceiling fan spins lazily, wobbling from a pair of navy blue sweatpants trailing off of one of the blades. whoosh, whoosh, click, whoosh A ghostly image in almond oil appears as a monoprint across the back glass window. Defying gravity, the tapestry on the back wall hangs by a single nail. The king size mattress is almost completely off the bed, and only a corner of it still leans against the boxspring. The bathroom---a river runs through it. A heady scent of amyl nitrate, sandalwood and asparagus pervades the room.
Duncan reclines against the mattress, with one foot propping up a blenderful of Tequila, grenadine, vanilla ice cream, and the worm. He stares blankly into space, exhausted, his ten fingers absently drumming on his stomach in time to "Misty."
At the foot of the bed, draped in what's left of the shower curtain, Methos perches on the boxspring, shaking his head. In a small voice, he hisses. "I just don't understand it, MacLeod. This has never happened to me before."