Status
The labels were the only thing left.
But the clock was ticking. Somehow the day had crept up, a date and time written a world ago. A world that didn't alternate between sluggish seconds and hours that disappeared. A world without Words, said and unsaid, and imaginary half-conversations and speculations. A world where bathing wasn't a chore and a bathrobe wasn't a uniform.
But there wasn't time. Unless you can make time. He couldn't, but...
Golden threads from the loom of his Imago wove together. More solid, more complete, more beautiful than any Illusion he'd ever made. The kind of Magic you want to jump and scream about and... tell Someone. Look, look.
He sat it on the steps. Made it get an umbrella. An experiment, and practice. Followed it, and Fisher. Divided his thoughts so that he could finish labeling the little Tupperware boxes. Neat, careful letters, with dates. Two dates, the first the suggested date based on the contents, the second the Eat By date. All the while watching through the one-way mirror that divided the industrial kitchen from the concession area. He even sink-showered, and pulled on some jeans. He'd already brushed. Some things you can neglect, like the lank mop, others are pretty mandatory. No furry teeth, yo. Still a mess. He'd buy something to wear on the road. A suit.
Then Arthur showed up. Then...
He held it as long as he could. Watching. Talking. Lying. Putting the meals in the refrigerator, then slipped on his backpack. Found his own fingers moving, mirroring the Phantasm's... then coming up to touch smooth, cold glass instead of scarred warm skin.
A strand was pulled; the weave collapsed, and he slipped out the back door.
Exit Stage Left.
You cry out in your sleep
All my failings exposed
And there's a taste in my mouth
As desperation takes hold
Just that something so good just can't function no more
- "Love Will Tear Us Apart", Joy Division
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