forth over what had happened at Genetron; chewing at the implications, the admittedly weird behavior of injecting his Lymphocytes back into his bloodstream, his inability to focus on what he was going to do next.
Vergil stared up at the dark ceiling, then scrunched his eyes to observe the phosphene patterns. He reached up with both hands, brushing Candice’s bottom, and pressed his index fingers against the outer orb of each of his eyelids to heighten the effect. Tonight, however, he could not entertain himself with psychedelic eyelid movies. Nothing came but warm darkness, punctuated by flashes as distant and vague as reports from another continent.
Beyond rumination, isolated from childhood tricks and still wide awake, Vergil settled into watchfulness, watching nothing, and thought with no object
really trying to avoid
—waiting until morning.
trying to avoid
thoughts of all things lost
and all recently gained that could be
lost
he isn’t ready
and still he moves and shakes
losing
On the Sunday morning of the third week:
Candice handed him a hot cup of coffee. He stared at it for a moment. Something was wrong with the cup and her hand. He fumbled for his glasses to put them on but they hurt his eyes worse. “Thanks,” he mumbled, taking the cup and lurching up in bed against the pillow, spilling a bit of the hot brown liquid across the sheets.
“What are you going to do today?” she asked. (Look for work? implied, but Candice never stressed responsibility, and never asked questions about his means.)
“Look for work, I suppose,” he said. He squinted through his glasses again, holding them by one flopping temple piece.
“I,” she said, “am going to take ad copy down to the Light and shop at that little vegetable stand down the street. Then I am going to fix dinner by myself and eat it alone.”
Vergil looked at her, puzzled.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He put the glasses aside. “Why alone?”
“Because I think you’re beginning to take me for granted. I don’t like that. I can feel you accepting me.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” she said patiently. She had dressed and combed her hair, which now hung long and shining across her shoulders. “I just don’t want to lose the spice.”
“Spice?”
“Look, every relationship needs a scratch of the kitten now and then. I’m beginning to think of you as an available puppy-dog, and that’s not good.”
“No,” said Vergil. He sounded distracted.
“Didn’t sleep last night?” she asked.
“No,” Vergil said. “Not much.” He looked confused.
“So what else?”
“I’m seeing you just fine,” he said.
“See? You’re taking me for granted.”
“No, I mean…without my glasses. I can see you just fine without my glasses.”
“Well, good for you,” Candice said with feline unconcern. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Don’t fret.”
“Oh, no,” Vergil said, squeezing his temples with his fingers.
She closed the door softly behind her.
He looked around the room.
Everything was in marvelous focus. He hadn’t seen things so clearly since the measles had stricken his eyesight when he was seven.
It was the first improvement he was positively convinced he could not attribute to Candice.
“Spice,” he said, blinking at the curtains.
CHAPTER SIX
Vergil had spent weeks, it seemed, in just such offices as this: pastel earth-colored walls, gray steel desk surmounted by neat stacks of papers and in-out baskets, man or woman politely asking psychologically telling questions. This time it was a woman, zaftig and well-dressed, with a friendly, patient face. Before her on the desk was his employment record and the results of a psych profile test. He had long since learned how to take such tests: When they ask for a sketch, avoid drawing eyes or sharp, wedge-shaped objects; draw items of food or pictures of pretty women; always state one’s goals in sharp, practical terms, but with a touch of
Vergil stared up at the dark ceiling, then scrunched his eyes to observe the phosphene patterns. He reached up with both hands, brushing Candice’s bottom, and pressed his index fingers against the outer orb of each of his eyelids to heighten the effect. Tonight, however, he could not entertain himself with psychedelic eyelid movies. Nothing came but warm darkness, punctuated by flashes as distant and vague as reports from another continent.
Beyond rumination, isolated from childhood tricks and still wide awake, Vergil settled into watchfulness, watching nothing, and thought with no object
really trying to avoid
—waiting until morning.
trying to avoid
thoughts of all things lost
and all recently gained that could be
lost
he isn’t ready
and still he moves and shakes
losing
On the Sunday morning of the third week:
Candice handed him a hot cup of coffee. He stared at it for a moment. Something was wrong with the cup and her hand. He fumbled for his glasses to put them on but they hurt his eyes worse. “Thanks,” he mumbled, taking the cup and lurching up in bed against the pillow, spilling a bit of the hot brown liquid across the sheets.
“What are you going to do today?” she asked. (Look for work? implied, but Candice never stressed responsibility, and never asked questions about his means.)
“Look for work, I suppose,” he said. He squinted through his glasses again, holding them by one flopping temple piece.
“I,” she said, “am going to take ad copy down to the Light and shop at that little vegetable stand down the street. Then I am going to fix dinner by myself and eat it alone.”
Vergil looked at her, puzzled.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
He put the glasses aside. “Why alone?”
“Because I think you’re beginning to take me for granted. I don’t like that. I can feel you accepting me.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” she said patiently. She had dressed and combed her hair, which now hung long and shining across her shoulders. “I just don’t want to lose the spice.”
“Spice?”
“Look, every relationship needs a scratch of the kitten now and then. I’m beginning to think of you as an available puppy-dog, and that’s not good.”
“No,” said Vergil. He sounded distracted.
“Didn’t sleep last night?” she asked.
“No,” Vergil said. “Not much.” He looked confused.
“So what else?”
“I’m seeing you just fine,” he said.
“See? You’re taking me for granted.”
“No, I mean…without my glasses. I can see you just fine without my glasses.”
“Well, good for you,” Candice said with feline unconcern. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Don’t fret.”
“Oh, no,” Vergil said, squeezing his temples with his fingers.
She closed the door softly behind her.
He looked around the room.
Everything was in marvelous focus. He hadn’t seen things so clearly since the measles had stricken his eyesight when he was seven.
It was the first improvement he was positively convinced he could not attribute to Candice.
“Spice,” he said, blinking at the curtains.
CHAPTER SIX
Vergil had spent weeks, it seemed, in just such offices as this: pastel earth-colored walls, gray steel desk surmounted by neat stacks of papers and in-out baskets, man or woman politely asking psychologically telling questions. This time it was a woman, zaftig and well-dressed, with a friendly, patient face. Before her on the desk was his employment record and the results of a psych profile test. He had long since learned how to take such tests: When they ask for a sketch, avoid drawing eyes or sharp, wedge-shaped objects; draw items of food or pictures of pretty women; always state one’s goals in sharp, practical terms, but with a touch of
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