These mechanically roused waters that lie before me have clouded my visage through the cold glass—the sliding doors of this, the indoor pool lounge of the Howard Johnson’s Inn off of Route 78 next to the Arby’s. I try, but cannot peer past the courtyard.
Dare I enter this bubbling cauldron? I gauge—by the aged, corpulent female that resides currently therein, snacking upon Andy Capp Hot Fries and Mountain Dew recently procured, I deduce, from yon vending machine—that it proffers pleasures of the flesh, prior unknown to my mortal coil. I fear but do not doubt the contribution of flatulence to the water’s agitation.
I put forth a toe.
Sweet Odin’s Raven! Tis’ hotter than the flames of Vulcan’s forge!
Men of valor know the eternal moment well. When that fine, irascible line that separates courage from inaction is breached with some single small movement, and forward momentum brings to pass things that are at once inevitable. Time slows to a crawl as history weighs the balance of actions known not yet to herself, but only to the actor.
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