There was a sort of tug inside of him.
He felt it, but he couldn't locate it.
The tug continued, pulling at his stomach like a sour hangover.
He was at a loss, gasping, his mind reeking of the stale desire haunting his heart.
He felt his eyes go limpid, his focus soften. The look of eyes that wander from iris to lips and back to iris, on the cusp of a kiss.
He stared out into the dark tunnel, which had suddenly become more compelling than his book.
There it was: that tug, that ache, that need.
It had stopped being a tug, and became a force: a weight that was securely lodged in his stomach, irremovable. Discomforting most particularly in its seeming permanence.
His mouth went dry, and he found himself, unaccountably, nervous.
Lightning bolts of restlessness and static shock rippled up and down his calf muscles. His legs began to feel weak and limp, as if they had suffered an overdose of an automatically enthusiastic massage chair.
He looked across the bar at his friends, certainly indulging in more fun than he.
But, for the love of all things holy, it was a Monday.
Who could stomach that much fun on a Monday?
He felt all sorts of warning signals flash in front of his eyes. He wished he could ignore them.
There was no obligation to follow their instructions, other than his own integrity.
It would be so easy to forget the many instructions his own mind had dictated to his lesser members. His mind was rebelling, the changeable thing.
So he closed his eyes to steady himself, as the vertigo of dull vertigo rushed over him.
If I don't, he thought, I'll regret this in the morning.
As one who is righteously pleased with himself, he was never anxious for experiences. The experiences he had were interesting, illuminating, and always thought-provoking. So he didn't see the point in regretting the ones that had past. Some of which, he was sure, would be equally as edifying as the experiences he had chosen. But, on the whole, probably mediocre, and really they were probably worth missing.
He bit his lip, chewing at the dry skin. An unfortunate and ungainly habit he couldn't shake, particularly when nervous. Dammit, why was he even nervous?
Was that really what this pit of fear stuck in his gut and throat and feet and mouth was, an internal rash of anxiety?
He wished that he could itch the load inside of him, as one itches a bad outbreak of hives.
Although futile, the action creates an illusion of ameliorating the condition.
I cannot scratch this itch, he thought miserably.
He fidgeted in his chair. The smooth, supposedly ergo-dynamic waves in the wooden seat annoying his tailbone, and frustrating any attempt to make himself comfortable.
He felt adrift, cut off from his friends surrounding him by the discomfort of his seat, the dangerous signals of alarm inside his head, and this persistent, damnable pulse of peril inside his body, sighing into his lungs with each inhale.
His stomach growled with paranoia.
Piercing through his muddy haze of agitation, a vision of a vast and airy vault crashed into his line of vision. His fingers followed the path of the delicate flying marble, as it flew through the air, as elegant and exquisite as a dragonfly's wing.
He rotated slowly under the canopy of the excruciatingly dainty marble, drinking in the melodies of stone written upon the ceiling in graceful and subtle melodies.
For as long as his sight endured, he basked in glorious cavern, as the vision of an eternal something far more lovely swallowed up his fear.