nny | (no subject)

He was on a beach.

The storm had abated a long time ago, hours maybe, and the sun was bright. If you looked close enough, you could see steam rising from the sand; it was beautiful, almost too good to be real. His hair was drier but his trousers still damp in places, salt stiffened and falling inelegantly against his legs, and the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up. His tweed jacket was draped over the face of the dead girl.

"I wasn't in time."

"I know."

That was the thing about him. Time was the only thing that still frustrated him because fast as he was he wasn't fast enough. He couldn't do everything.

In heaven, time moved slower. An hour lasted years and seven days (six days and change) lasted an eternity. Himself was still resting. But here there was never quite enough time to do everything, and doing what he could was never quite enough. Dinners at the Ritz and fixing old books was a measure taken against insanity, a style of meditation, perhaps. Clearing the mind of anything but the moment. Tao principles, which was almost ironic, which almost made him laugh. Any other day, maybe.

Looking at him through sunglasses you could pretend the tortured expression was from squinting at the sun.

"Maybe it was her time."

Yeah, he got angry, sometimes.

"Why? Why now? How could you possibly know? How can I?"

A shrug.

"Wrong person to ask."

He settled back against the sand, and stared back out to sea.

"Ineffable."

In his mouth, it was a curse.

"Come on."

He didn't move, didn't say anything, just looked sidelong, not quite at the body that lay next to him.

"Come on, I said. I'll take care of it."

His mouth twisted a little, but to his credit it looked like he tried to stop it.

"Not - you - you have to take care."

His eyes were worried, and the implied lack of trust stung.

"I know. I'll take care of it."

Eventually he stood, and allowed himself to be led away. And it's taken care of, the jacket burned. A promise means more than he knows.