desolation of some no-man’s land beyond this space and time: a single languorous cactus in a desert sandstorm.
He looked at the cup as he lifted it to his lips. As his head tilted back he caught a glimpse of her face, her sorrowful face staring into her coffee, and then as he sipped he became aware of the large array of window squares, the panes of which now seemed totally opaque. He could see nothing outside.
He stared at her hand. Her thin, delicate fingers pressed lightly on the tabletop. He was stirred by the apparent lightness of her hand, by its buoyant motionlessness, as if it were floating in the thick smoke-filled air like a fragile bird levitating over a brooding sea. He felt a strong urge to touch her hand, to caress it while speaking words of love and redemption. But he felt clumsy and inept, unsure of himself, of his own feelings and intentions. And of hers. He stared at her hand, and as he did, his desire intensified.