I only had eyes for David. He was sprawled with superb arrogance in a high-backed armchair, wearing a dinner jacket, matching trousers, and a dress shirt with tightly frilled front panels and shining black buttons. The shirt’s high wing collar was open to halfway down his pale chest, and a black bow tie dangled unstrung. He was still wearing the dark glasses. One leg was hooked up over the arm of the chair, and he held a long-stemmed glass half full of red wine as though he couldn’t quite be bothered to put it down. He looked like an after-dinner Apollo, a young god taking his ease.
Strider’s Edge
Stay me with apples, comfort me with flagons, for I am sick with fic. I reread Strider’s Edge last night before going to sleep and now I am perma-sad. Strange, how potent free fiction can be.