For my snippet this Sunday, I present a scene from The Ancient in which Edgar is waiting for Alasdair’s return–and feeling increasingly frustrated–
Edgar sat in the comfortable chair by the small fire he had built in Alasdair’s room.
He was waiting.
He sat there, a snifter of brandy in his hand, his tie loosened. Alasdair was late. He always called him that when he thought of him, even if he dared not call him that to his face unless he had permission, except–for that one time, that time when he had held him, had made love to him, had made him beg for him. That was a memory he would never let go. The more it was in his head, the more agitated he became. He wanted to become one with Alasdair so much. He wanted to have Alasdair drain him, and then bring him back so he could drink his fill of him. Sometimes, he thought that death would be preferable to just being with him in this–limbo, this holding time, with just tastes to keep him youthful, giving tastes to Alasdair.
He was tired of tastes, so tired.
“Damn you, I want to be you!” He threw the snifter in the fire. The flames shot up bright blue, intense, and then faded.
Just like his heart.
Saddened, he got up from the chair, walking slowly toward the bed. His arthritis was giving him twinges again. He lay on the bed fully clothed with a soft sigh of relief, waiting for him. He fought to keep his eyes open–