It was not unconsciousness which had overtaken her, nor had she overloaded on the sensations of Henry's body, his thrusts, his hot kisses, the feel of her fingers through his hair. But when she opened her eyes, the bright summer afternoon had faded into dusk. Henry was still beside her, asleep on the work bench, his lovely sinewy body showing in the half-light. How his human body fascinated her, the way it simply was without the aid of design or programming, how it was grown naturally and not fabricated. She doubted any human really knew how to be awed at this complicated thing they simply called life.
She sat up and scooted off the table, doing her best not to move too much. Henry looked so peaceful now. She knew it had been days since he'd last slept. She inched her way over to the WC and turned on the light.
She looked at herself in the mirror. Soft pale skin, thick wavy hair. She turned to look at the scar just over her hip. She'd fought hard with Henry over the scar. She'd wanted it so badly. She'd spent hours designing it, fabricating a story. "I can say it was a gymnastics incident," she'd argued. "That I missed a step and fell on some equipment..."
She turned on the shower and stepped under the stream, feeling slightly sad that this was the SOP after coitus, washing away the traces as if to conceal some great crime. She used the soap and then ran some of the gel through her hair before rinsing thoroughly and then shutting off the stream.
She toweled her body and hair, using her fingers instead of a comb. She hung the towels to dry and then went back through the lab to look out the window at the gathering night. Light shown in the buildings were late classes were being held. Some students laughed and shouted happily as they walked the pathways along St. Giles towards Blackfriars. She felt like opening the window and shouting down at them for some reason. She shook her head and then looked over at Henry, his breathing slow and heavy as he dreamed of who-knew-what.
She found herself scowling at him as she thought of him dreaming. She'd never dreamed, and could never understand the concept no matter how many times he'd tried to explain it. Visions, epiphanies, memories, fantasies... all these things and yet none of them purely, it was all too confusing. She hated confusion, it was frustrating. She walked over and ran the back of her hand over his forehead, envying him his dreams.
"I'm going to leave now," she whispered. She bent to kiss his cheek and then walked to the closet, finding a pair of blue jeans, some sneakers, and a blouse. From a hook she took Henry's raincoat and with a last look at his sleeping form, she left, closing the door behind her.
***
Freddie was trashed. He took up the bottle and had a pull, leaning heavily on the shoulders of his "mates."
"Showed you, didn't I?" She chuckled, some of the whiskey dribbling down his chin. "Americans can hold there own, you' see?"
"Yeah, Freddie, you showed us." Simon shot a glance at Sean and rolled his eyes. "Let's get you back to the rooms, eh, Freddie?"
"I don't want to go back."
Sean chuckled and laid on a bit of his Irish brogue. "What would you rather do?"
"Not go back, I just said. The night is young and I'm a poet."
"A poet, eh?"
"Y-," He hiccupped. "Yes. I'll have you know I was junior poet laurite of Tishomingo County. I was 12. They gave me a plaque. My mother hung it in the den at home." He broke away from them and took up a rather shaky stance on the steps in front of the Department of Engineering Science Building.
"Go on then, give us a reading, Mr. Elliot," Dick crossed his arms as Sean did his best to squash his fit of laughter as Freddie tottered on the steps drunkenly.
"I-I intend to," He cleared his throat and began, his voice taking on a bit of a serious timber. "What angels seem to be forever unhappy because of this particular atom in the cherry orchard?" He paused, taking a slug. "We stare into eyes of Cheshire cats striped and menacing, torturing, droll, with music unwritten, playing. silence, like corpses singing elegies, eulogies, ballads of drunken, homeless lyrics, roaring into undiscerning ears. They're the songs that teach the world. Songs without author or admirers only blank pages – stainless sidewalks." He lifted the hand clutching the bottle, point off into the distance. "Where comes in character and where goes it when they push the ejector button of mankind's motorcar?"
He nodded, shaking the outstretched bottler as if punctuating his poem with the movement. His two friends smirked up at him as a single girl who'd exited the building behind him clapped.
"That was lovely," the girl said.
Freddie bowed. "I do hope someone wrote it down, missy. I just made it up."
"You're American?" She circled him appraisingly.
"A Rhodes Scholar, at your service," He bowed a deep bow and nearly collapsed. The girl caught him and righted him before the two other men could make a move up the steps. She looped his arm over her shoulder and moved him down the steps joining the other two men.
"This is what they call inebriation, isn't it?"
The two men chuckled, taking the weight of the drunken poet from the girl as they resumed the walk towards the dormitories. "Oh, it's gone beyond that," said the smaller of the two, "Hours ago, in fact."
The larger one with the posh accent piped up, "What's your name, miss?"
"Eliza. Yours?"
"I'm Simon, this is Sean. This one here, when he's conscious, it's called Freddie. He's a real charmer, Freddie is, when he's not being such a Yank."
"Sour grapes. You're just upset 'cause you lost the resolution and we made all the bad guys in Star Wars British because of it."
"The resolution?" Eliza cocked an eyebrow.
