Quoted By:
"Oh. Sorry." You twitch a finger, and the forest dissolves into mist, and the mist into a fine master bedroom, with bookshelves and a roaring fireplace and a stately canopied four-poster. Gil blinks. "Oh... wow. Hah. Rose petals? Really?"
There are rose petals scattered across the floor and bedspread. You put your hands on your hips. "Is something the matter?"
"No! Just—"
You don't actually have to read his mind to realize he finds it silly. "Fine! Is this better?"
A twitch of your finger: a fine, undisturbed beach. A perfect pink sunset. The scent of rose (but no visible petals). Gil squints against the breeze. "Um, i-i-it's... pretty, but Lottie, do you know how sand, uh... you know how it gets everywhere?"
"I'm God!" you hiss. "I could make it not—"
"Well, i-i-i-it'd also be, uh, scratchy... and wet... do you think somewhere indoors would be better? Indoors, and— and not so fancy. Maybe."
You have already exhausted your knowledge of fancy locations, not that you intend on telling Gil that. "Wow. Okay. Fine. If you want somewhere <span class="mu-i">not fancy</span> so bad, how's—"
A twitch of your finger: a different bedroom, fireplaceless, petalless, with powder-pink walls and a wooden baseboard. With cross-stitch samplers framed above the bureau— "appropriate decor for a growing young lady," said your Aunt Ruby, who happened to cross-stitch. With a long shelf of increasingly complex models. With, you know, a stash of yellow-paged books under a loose floorboard.
With a twin-sized bed, which you sit upon. Gil is turning all around to look. "This isn't—"
"Yes."
"I-i-it's... it's really cute."
You sit on your hands. "It is?"
"Yeah! Did you make all of these?"
He is investigating the models. You clear your throat. "Gil? We were looking at your new body? For— for knowledge, if you remember."
"Oh. Right." He looks sheepish. "Uh... yes. Knowledge. I-I-I-I guess I better..."
You settle back on your own bed as Gil tugs his shirt up and off. He drops it to the ground unceremoniously. "Well... there you go. Not much to look at."
Not much to look at? Gil overestimates the number of men's chests you'd ever permitted yourself to view. It's true that, on a quick survey, he doesn't look much like certain book covers— but had you ever expected him to? Would you even want him to? "You're going to have to come here. I can't see properly."
"O-oh." He steps forward. He has goose-pimples all up his arms, though it isn't especially cold, and at your light touch he jolts. "Sorry! Sorry."
"You're negative thinking, aren't you?" He doesn't respond. "Come on. Settle down. I just need to..."
(10)
