On the Far Side of Darkness Read Online Free PDF Page B

The slight lift in her shoulders tells me she’s relieved.
    The  lovely redhead walks towards a small liquor cabinet. “Would you like…” she starts. Then she turns to me. “Sorry, Georges.” There’s a touch of chagrin on her features.
    “ De rien. I’m not offended.”
    “Music?” is her inquiry then.
    “Something classical.” I like some modern music, but I prefer that from when I was still alive.
    To my surprise, Diane walks to the desk on which her computer sits. A click of the mouse wakes it up. A double click starts a program. She clicks once more, then again, and Bach wafts from the speakers set on the bookcase in the opposite wall.
    “How fascinating,” I remark. “I hadn’t realized you could do such things with a computer.”
    “I’ve got some streaming radio stations that I listen to. I never much cared for the speakers on my machine so I found out how to hook up good ones.” She frowns in puzzlement at me. “Surely you must use a computer, Georges, and the internet.”
    “Not for anything like this, writing and e-mailing works to my publisher is the most I use them for.” Truth be told, I had to struggle a little with these things. The concepts behind them seemed nearly magical to me.
    A particular piece starts playing, one I loved the final year I spent in Versailles. It has been decades, literally, since I heard it last. It takes me back and without thought I bow as I did in the ballrooms of Paris centuries ago, deeply and with a care not let my wig fall off.
    Diane, without hesitation, dips a curtsey. Like my bow, it suggests clothes long out of fashion; a gown with wide panniers and a neckline so low her back must be kept straight to keep from shocking the other attendees of the ball. She extends a hand and I lead her through the mincing steps of a minuet.
    There’s really not enough space in her living room to do it properly, but we make due. Diane enchants me with her smooth grace, her sweet smile and her twinkling eyes. As I always feel around her, it seems like I am human again. I can almost see the parquet floors and high ceilings of the tanzsaal, the ballrooms I frequented as a man.
    The music comes to an end and we finish our dance with another bow and curtsey. The speakers sound out the announcer speaking in a low voice, telling her listeners what piece she had just played and what will be next.
    The lovely redhead whose hand I still hold trills a laugh. “You really are an historian. I’m not surprised you’d know how to do a minuet.”
    I bow my head to acknowledge her praise. “It’s my family’s fault. They insisted I receive what they regarded as a proper education.” Proper for two and a half centuries ago.
    “And you, cher ? Where did you learn the minuet?”
    “In university. For fun I joined a Georgian recreation society. You can’t pretend to be a late 18th Century lady without knowing the dances.”
    My heart lifts as Strauss’s Vienna Waltz starts to play. Diane and I move into each other without hesitation. At once we’re stepping through the music, tripping through our small space as if we were in a tanzsaal in the city our dance is named after. Our eyes never lose the other’s gaze and our smiles are happy beyond words.
    The orchestra finishes with the usual Strauss flourish and we come to a halt. But we don’t step apart. Instead the arms where we held hands join the other around our waists. Diane and I pause then.
    I can see it in her eyes and the irresolute twist of her mouth. My expression reflects hers. We’re uncertain. Uncertain of what will happen if we follow the impulse we share. I know she wants me as I want her. There’s a blush on her cheeks, too light for a human to notice, but obvious to something like me. There’s a change in her odor and her arms tremble ever so little. The way I’ve gone stock still shows my ambivalence.
    That lasts for only a few seconds. Then I lean down, Diane rises to the balls of her feet and our mouths