Title: You Should Live Twice
Author: Foxglove
Characters: Qui and Narrator
Rating: PG
Archive: Sith Chicks
Category: Mild H/C, poetry, and sentimental drivel.
Summary: Narrator is feeling maudlin; a stranger offers solace.
Feedback: Constructive criticism and unwarranted praise gratefully
accepted
Notes and Disclaimer:
The friendly stranger belongs to Good Old George. No money was made from
this: the Boys give me their favors for free. The poem and the title are
Shakespeare's.
Katsura trees are real and their leaves do smell the way I describe. And
if you ever travel to Seattle, walk by the harbor at night and you will
see what I mean about the lights.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"You Should Live Twice"

The rainy season is about to begin. These last few nights of October,
crisp and bright, are too lovely, too fleeting to spend indoors.
Stepping out onto the balcony of the crowded gallery, I look up into the
sparkling sky, then down at the glittering city and its reflection in
Elliot Bay. Even the boats are decked with strings of lights. Leaning
out over the railing, I twine my hands in my hair and sigh. What
wouldn't I give for someone to share this moment with me? The fact is,
there is no-one, and has not been for some time. With the rains of
winter just approaching, I feel a sense of desperation, as if I am
running out of time. My own looks, just like the clear skies and calm
waters will not last much longer. Who would look into the cold depths of
the water to see what lies there? Who would ... No. Don't think about
that. It does no good. Far out on the horizon, where the light-speckled
water meets the light-speckled sky, something moves, but I cannot see
what it is.

A rustle behind me makes me swear silently. I'd hoped for a moment of
solitude to fortify myself before returning to the fray. I nod to the
newcomer but keep my face towards the bay; acknowledging his presence,
but not inviting conversation. I can feel the rail shift under the
weight of the man as he leans against it - not far away, for the balcony
is small, but enough to be polite. The man sighs, a deep, "Mmmmm ...."
as if agreeing with something the night has said to him. I try to look
at him out of the corner of my eye. Casually observing him is difficult,
for he is much taller than I am. I can see glints of silver in his long
hair. His face is thoughtful and calm, yet somehow a little sad. I
glance down again, noting the katsura trees that line the street are
sending showers of yellow leaves spinning towards the ground. In the
circles of lamplight the pale leaves wink in and out of visibility, then
skitter into darkness.

My friend the stranger begins to speak so softly that at first I think I
am hearing my own thoughts. His voice is so deep and soothing it seems
to come from the depths of my own heart:

"Those hours that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell
Will play the tyrants to the very same,
And that unfair which fairly doth excell ..."

Now I am looking directly at him, although he still looks out across the
city, towards the point on the horizon that still ripples strangely.
And he does not stop reciting my favorite poem, the one that reflects my
feelings so perfectly at this moment:

"For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter and confounds him there,
Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'ersnowed and bareness everywhere ..."

It is too much. I am shaking and tears pour down my face. How dare he,
how dare he come to me now, this beautiful stranger reciting poems under
a perfect sky. How dare he touch my heart so tenderly, so effortlessly
when it has become callused from rough use; how dare he revive it to
what can only be more pain, more stupid mistakes? Such scenes are for
those to whom love and passion are still an adventure. A sob hitches in
my chest. He turns and looks deep into my eyes. His eyes are blue, and
glitter with the reflection of the lights; his voice goes calmly,
inexorably on:

"Then were not summer's distillation left
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was."

And he reaches out then, to rub tears away from my cheek.

"But flowers distilled, though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet."

The wind rises and below us the katsura trees shiver. The burnt sugar
smell of their leaves drifts up to us. I realize suddenly that the
streets below us are empty: we are the only ones in the whole city who
can smell those incredible, intoxicatingly sweet trees. His hand
pauses under my chin, but he does not try to raise my face and I am
glad: I want to look out at the bay and regain my equilibrium. But I am
also glad when his arm goes around me, hesitantly at first like someone
stepping into a cold and unfamiliar pool, then with a bit more firmness, bracing me against his warm side, his cloak draped over my shoulders like a protective wing. My shivers - half cold, half tension - subside as I lean against him. We both watch the boats glide silently across the glassy water, we both breathe in the sea-fresh air laced with the sweetness of the decaying katsura leaves.

And for awhile I am perfectly content.