The dinner had gone perfectly. They'd had delicate French cuisine with portions just the right size. The soft candlelight at the table had danced in their eyes as they gazed at each other. They'd decided to go to his place for "coffee."
Oren sat patiently on the edge of the bed, silk sheets caressing the backs of his thighs. Soft modern jazz played on his stereo, providing what he hoped was a romantic mood. His uniform lay in a heap tangled with Min's jacket on his oversized wingback chair. He watched the bathroom door, waiting for her to come out. The breath caught in his throat as the doorknob turned.
She stood revealed in a dark green lace thing that accentuated her modest but still lovely curves. Her hair was down from its customary pigtails and cascaded down her back as a crimson halo. She glided gracefully over to him in a slink so sexy that Bella Fuego and Jackie Frost would weep in jealousy. He swallowed nervously as she hopped in his lap and kissed him. He reached up to caress her face...
... and she shattered into a thousand pieces. He leapt back from where he'd been sitting, and his bed burst into splinters and shreds of cloth intermixed with feathers and springs. He flung his arms out to catch his balance and smashed the wall into rubble. He fearfully looked down on the pieces of the girl he loved. Fragments of porcelain lay scattered about, half of her face still intact. A hurt expression flitted across the eye and her beautiful mouth.
"I thought you loved me, Oren," she said sadly.
He woke with a gasp, sending the sheets flying from his Promethium-reinforced bed as he sat bolt upright. Sweat laced with the stink of adrenaline ran in rivulets across his wide chest. A bewildered look crossed his face as he oriented himself. 'The same nightmare,' he thought and wept into his hands.
''We don't just borrow words; on occasion, English has pursued other languages down alleyways to beat
them unconscious and rifle their pockets for new vocabulary.''
-- James Nicoll
Oren sat patiently on the edge of the bed, silk sheets caressing the backs of his thighs. Soft modern jazz played on his stereo, providing what he hoped was a romantic mood. His uniform lay in a heap tangled with Min's jacket on his oversized wingback chair. He watched the bathroom door, waiting for her to come out. The breath caught in his throat as the doorknob turned.
She stood revealed in a dark green lace thing that accentuated her modest but still lovely curves. Her hair was down from its customary pigtails and cascaded down her back as a crimson halo. She glided gracefully over to him in a slink so sexy that Bella Fuego and Jackie Frost would weep in jealousy. He swallowed nervously as she hopped in his lap and kissed him. He reached up to caress her face...
... and she shattered into a thousand pieces. He leapt back from where he'd been sitting, and his bed burst into splinters and shreds of cloth intermixed with feathers and springs. He flung his arms out to catch his balance and smashed the wall into rubble. He fearfully looked down on the pieces of the girl he loved. Fragments of porcelain lay scattered about, half of her face still intact. A hurt expression flitted across the eye and her beautiful mouth.
"I thought you loved me, Oren," she said sadly.
He woke with a gasp, sending the sheets flying from his Promethium-reinforced bed as he sat bolt upright. Sweat laced with the stink of adrenaline ran in rivulets across his wide chest. A bewildered look crossed his face as he oriented himself. 'The same nightmare,' he thought and wept into his hands.
''We don't just borrow words; on occasion, English has pursued other languages down alleyways to beat
them unconscious and rifle their pockets for new vocabulary.''
-- James Nicoll