Date: Mon, 26 Jun 2017 14:56:10 -0400
From: Orson Cadell <orson.cadell@gmail.com>
Subject: Lake Desolation 16

Please see original story (www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/rural/lake-desolation/)
for warnings and copyright. Highlights: All fiction. All rights
reserved. Includes sex between adult men. Go away if any of that is against
your local rules. Practice safer sex than my characters. Write if you like,
but flamers end up in the nasty bits of future stories. Donate to Nifty
**TODAY** at donate.nifty.org/donate.html to keep the cum coming.

*****

That, apparently, is the magic word. Logan throws his head back and
explodes between us. I look up at a young god, lithe muscles locked in
ecstasy. I can see every cord of his neck, every ripple of his chest and
shoulder, and every single muscle is straining to contribute to his
release. My belly-fur is flooded with his discharge, and I probably feel
hotter, sexier, manlier and... more satisfied in this moment than I've been
in years. Would I rather I was cumming with my virile lover? Sure. But the
sheer bliss in his exultant face is far more-powerful and fulfilling than a
dozen orgasms to me.

*****

Lake Desolation 16: Pondering the Law

By Bear Pup

Tuesday (9) & Wednesday (1)

*****

I wake some hours later, long after dark. I desperately need the
bathroom. Come off a night of drinking and go straight to bed? At my age?
Yeah, this isn't gonna work. Logan' slight but not-inconsequential bulk is
still balanced atop me and I smile.  I shift him and try to stifle a
scream, which wakes him and he fails to stifle his own. The front of our
bodies, including every single pubic or chest hair, is firmly glued
together with Logan's copious load.

I hand him a corner of a pillow and take another for myself. "Do a
'Band-Aid' on three? Okay. One. Two. {ThreGHArhsswnGARGHAaaaa}!" I look
down honestly expecting to see one of those medical diagrams in Gray's
Anatomy where it shows all the underlying tissues when the epidermis is
completely removed. I start to chuckle when I see how much black hair I've
suddenly grown in my snowy-white pelt and how Logan has aged decades, now
sporting a salt-and-pepper crotch.

Every move yanking another hair out of place, I stumble to the bathroom and
start to piss, long and hard. Logan moves behind me and starts the shower,
rinsing the worst of the damage away and simply pissing into the stream. I
join him and we take giggling turns trying re-liquify what looks like
nothing else than dried Elmer's. Logan has obviously been saving up for a
not-too-rainy day! We finally crawl out and dry each other, completely at
cross-purposes but enjoying it immensely. We cuddle back in bed and drift
off, probably around four in the morning, Logan this time cradling me. I
find the reversal wonderful.

I am having the most-erotic and amazing dream of my life. Each of my
nipples is wet and puffy, being gently mauled by someone who is currently
licking the area between my pubic mound and belly-button. The mysterious
spot that, as far as I know, has never had a name, is something only Maria
ever discovered and a brief pang of sadness is flamed away by the
sensations of my dream.  A nip of teeth makes me gasp myself awake and I
realize that Loga has his face buried down there, lip-nibbling and licking
that secret zone of pleasure.

He feels me stir and looks up, chocolate eyes boiling in the early
light. "Good morning, lover. Nice... dream?" Just looking at him down
there, throat touching my cock and fingers still diddling my nipples, makes
me whimper with need. "Shame. Sadly, time to get up and get ready for the
day!" He perkily tries to wriggle out of the bed and in moments he is
trapped beneath me, giggling and struggling around a flurry of quick,
passionate, insistent kisses that fall all over his face, neck and ears.

"You -- are a naughty little monkey. Treat your elders with respect or
I'llllllllloh-my-god." He starts to tease my cock and balls all at the same
time and I never get to the end of that sentence. We roll around for a bit
like puppies or otters, simply alight with the flame of touching and being
touched.

I'm not sure which of us finally cries uncle, but we eventually get
showered and dressed. "So, you've been to The City, right?" Logan smiles.

"Yeah, but not for a long time. You know, before I was... you know." His
smiled vanishes like a wisp of smoke.

I lift his face to mine, "So back when you were Logan, still," I swim into
those pools of molten brown, "before 'you know' tried *and failed* to
consume you. You're Logan again now. You're *MY* Logan, and no one and
nothing can ever take you away." I kiss away a tear from the corner of each
eye. "But that means that you never got to the do 9/11 Memorial. Come on;
let's see is Samanth is on duty."

She isn't, but apparently the contents of my 'secret' envelope had become
common knowledge. Marq (Seriously? Can't anyone just have a normal name
anymore? An echo of Maria's voice scolds, 'You were saying, "STETTLER"?')
is slightly more 'straight-appearing' than Lombard Street but is deLIGHTed
to do ANYthing for STETtler McKAY. I mean, isn't a bit soon for Liberace to
be reincarnated? Anyway, he magically produces tickets timed for an hour
hence, 9:00 this very morning, including the staff-guided tour no less.

I eye him speculatively and muse, "So, Marq... It's obvious that you've got
the pulse of The City. Tell you what. We'll be back after the tour. You
have me three things for the two of us to do tomorrow evening. Keep it
light and fun, please." I drop my voice, "And in case you haven't heard, I
refuse to even acknowledge that tipping policies exist."

The walk to the 'National September 11 Memorial' is about a three-block
trek due to construction around the site. Five minutes, tops. We kill half
an hour at the emotionally-devastating 'reverse fountains', the gaping
footprints of the towers draining away the torrents of water into blackness
below.

The layers and textures of the symbolism pummel me; as an author, it shames
my attempt to frame it in mere words.  I can think of only two other
memorials that have this impact on me, and each wears the same shades of
foreboding-black: The Holocaust Memorial in Berlin ('Memorial to the
Murdered Jews of Europe', edging out Yad Vashem in Jerusalem simply due to
its visceral immediacy) and the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington,
DC.

Even though I'd been here before with Maria, I almost expect the museum
itself to be anticlimactic. Instead, it is a brilliant and incomparable
assault on preconceptions, assumptions and senses. The use of light and
shadow, of gradually-constricting spaces, of simple, worldly objects rip
away any scabs that time has woven over the wounds of that horrific
day. The simple, spare, counter-melodramatic tone of the guide adds yet
another nearly-unbearable texture of import. I am not sure who is closer to
tears, Logan or myself, as we stagger into the shocking daylight and cold
of the NYC winter's day.

Considering my own physical and emotional attachment to Logan, it's
insanely-hypocritical of me to think of Marq as Tinkerbell, but I can't
help it. The busy little bee has three options for tomorrow evening:
Bastard Jones before dinner at Batard (actually Bātard, 'bastard' in
French, a cute touch), The Gazillion Bubble Show after dinner at Chinese
Tuxedo, and Lion King after the Waverly Inn. The look on Logan's face when
'Lion King' is mentioned leaves no doubt as to the choice.  Marq puts the
cost of the theatre tickets on my bill and I ask him discreetly for an
envelope into which I place a bit of gree gratitude. As we're walking out,
I'm a little afraid the nelly queen might actually come to offer us a free
pre-show blow-job when he sees the tip. I just smile.

We get to the [no, I'm still not stupid enough to say] Pub & Grill about a
quarter to one and Logan orders the Killarney Stew and I settled for Fish &
Chippies. I see the bartender on the phone from the corner of my eye as the
order comes in, not-so-obviously describing both of us to some off-screen
person. In a few minutes, a massive envelope and two dinners appear.

The food, I'll admit, is good. I go to peek in the envelope and find a
post-it that says, "Personal and Confidential. Please open in private."
When we finish, I leave the tab and a generous tip and stand up find a
smiling Will dangling keys to Wally's Town Car of Terror. Logan looks like
he's about to lose his Killarney Stew, but I think fast and force a
smile. "Will! A pleasure! Easy one today. Herald Square and Macy's please."

Will bundles us into the Town Car. I've picked a destination that offers
only one route and does not involve a single interchange. In other words, a
roller coaster with a single drop hill. Will is happy, though, even though
I've robbed him of a chance to show off his nascent NASCAR skills.

We mount the always-sluggish Long Island Expressway. I rip into the
envelope as soon as the car is in motion. The contents nearly made me
cry. A raised-seal Massachusetts Birth Certificate is first, followed by
actual admission papers for the hospital where 'Larry' was born. His
'original' Social Security Card, complete with childish scrawl for a
signature, and a 'current' one with his 'real' signature are there. There
is a Florida Driver's License with a poorly-captured image of a
shell-shocked Logan; perfect. The University of Miami student pass makes me
smile, the 'kill me now' smile on Logan for that one is simply endearing. I
am poleaxed by a speeding ticket from New Jersey, a jury summons in Florida
and a (useless but interesting) draft card. Larry is now as real as any
human could be.

I'm giddy with relief as I pass bits and pieces to Larry. I smile as I go
through his school transcript from St Andrew's Academy in Savannah, where
he apparently went all 12 years. It looks utterly authentic. I tsk at Larry
for coming close to failing Home Economics -- twice! -- and he haughtily
explains he was distracted by Meagan Laws. Her tits kept getting in the way
of his homework. Will glances back and smiles as we laugh.

Overall, there are perhaps thirty pages of material here. I separate it
into piles for 'wallet' and 'safety deposit box' just before we are flung
against out seatbelts as Will comes out of hyperdrive at the Palladian
entrance of the flagship of the Macy's chain. We'd flashed by the Herald
Square display in warp drive so never saw the Christmas theme for the year,
but the giant tree over the original door is there, not-quite obscuring the
four rather-stern goddesses above.

We hit the menswear department first. The older and very sweet lady there
expresses sympathy over my grandson's introduction to Gotham City; he'd
been mugged, losing his luggage and wallet as he took a 'short cut' from
the subway to the building where I lived. She is more than happy to
assemble a wardrobe for him. I explain that he needs enough for a month or
so since, even if he hadn't been robbed, his Florida wardrobe would have
been no match for a New York winter.

I think Logan is going to have a heart attack when she rings up the
purchases. Even I blink. It costs more than my last laptop. We leave the
goods in her charge for a bit while we do shoes, boots, and a very nice
travel wallet. Exhausted, we gather up the booty and pile into a waiting
cab and make it to the hotel. The bellhop instantly takes charge of the
bags and magically get them to room before we stumbled in ourselves.

I look at the clock and am dismayed to find it's only (or already) 1:30. I
lay back on the bed for a minute while Logan goes to work on the
clothes. I'm shocked when he shakes me awake and tells me it's 3:00, but
the unexpected and unintentional nap has done me a world of good. I freshen
up and come out to find a rather dapper young metro-type in stylish boots,
designer jeans and a not-quite-tropical shirt, a coat over one arm. Logan
has done something.... interesting with his hair that seems to make him
look more like a beardless hipster than anything else, but in a... a good
way, I guess. I mean, I'm sure I looked far more ridiculous when I was
twenty. Maybe. Sort of. Anything is possible.

We head down and the doorman has a cab ready practically before we hit the
door. I give him the Broadway entrance address and we're off. He's one of
the crazies, intent on spec-testing the vehicle for both zero-to-c
acceleration and c-to-zero braking at any opportunity. I'm a bit shocked
that Logan is not at all fazed this time. He just holds my hand and
smiles. It takes about 20 minutes to arrive and the receptionist tells me
Jack is waiting. She takes Logan in hand and installs him the reading-room
lobby, walls covered with current titles and greatest hits from their long
history.

I immerse myself in the weird world of publishing for a while, mainly who
has sued me for what recently. I nearly had a heart attack the first time I
was sued for plagiarism. My agent/editor at the time was delightful and
openly amused. The 'author' in question basically sued everyone who wrote a
book involving a man and a woman entering a romantic relationship. My
lawyer wrote her a very nice letter offering not to press charges if she
went away and nothing more was said.

Most suits, though, have a little more complexity. There really are only so
many ways to have a boy-meet-girl kind of story and it is inevitable that
plots will overlap. Things get sticky when two books with similar plots
also have similar turns-of-phrase. My writing style (lock myself in my
cabin and ignore the universe for a while) helps, but no author can
honestly say that a particular word or phrase didn't stick when he or she
read it in another author's work.

Only one really interesting one has cropped up; an up-and-coming author had
perhaps a dozen passages in her latest work that really did sound exactly
like what I'd written perhaps ten years earlier in a very popular piece,
The Winds of Thimphu. She has set her piece in Nepal where mine was in
Bhutan, but much of the rest is suspicious. I tell Jack I'll abide by
Legal's recommendation, but it isn't one that really makes me furious. Next
is on to trends and changes. About then, the receptionist calls in and
reminds us of the time. We wrap the formal stuff and collect Logan, then
we're off to BarBacon.

Jack and I each order a Beer & Bacon Flight (four artisanal bacons, each
with a matched five-ounce beer). Logan looks longingly at it but I remind
'Larry' that he's got three more years before he can drink. The look I get
assures me that I'll pay for that jibe later. That launches introductions
and I tell Jack that I've started letting Larry proof my latest work.

"Really? You never let anyone prooooooo--- Wait-wait-wait! You're writing
again?" I nod and smile slyly. "And you're just NOW telling me this?
Stettler, I could throttle you sometimes! Congratulations!" A thing halfway
between a phone and a tablet magically appears and Jack is scrawling
furious notes into it. "Do you have a title yet?"

"Actually, Larry came up with one." I smile again at the shock on Jack's
face. "I'm thinking it's a good one, 'Hunt of the Black Wolf'. New twist,
at least for me. I'm bringing Ginny back, but this time the dweeb she sets
her sights on is actually the hero and the tables turn on the
pursuer. Think that will work?"

Jack is beaming. "Excellent. Hidden heroes are a cresting trend. How much
can you send me, and when?"

"I'll promise the first act," I always think of my pieces in three- or
four-act story arcs, "by the end of January," Jacks' eyes balloon, "and I
think I might be ready for edit in... three months?"  In fact, I'm pretty
sure I'll have the whole thing before January, but one must never promise
something doable to an editor. It's a basic law of the universe. Three
months for a finished work, though, is Christmas plus a couple birthdays
for Jack, starved as he's been for a new Stettler McKay title.

Dinner proceeds in high spirits as BarBacon slowly fills with post-day
revellers. As we wrap up, Jack asks, "So, Larry, have you ever done a night
cruise-tour? No? Stettler, that might be just the ticket. It's a pretty
mild today. Lots of Christmas lights and all. Aaaaaaaand, yep, they've got
space. Want me to block two seats?" I thank Jack and pay the
shockingly-modest tab. "By the way, you should download their app. It's
pretty good!"

"You know I don't carry a smartphone, Jack."

'Larry' erupts in the gasp of appalled teen-with-tech-deficiency horror and
Jack smiles. Logan borrows Jack's phone-tablet-thing for a second and
thanks him. We part ways at the door and hail a cab. Logan leans in and
says "67th & Broadway, please."

Logan literally drags me into the Apple Store. Over $2500 later, we emerge
with two iPhone Reds and the assorted accessories. Both are attached to my
credit, but one is in Larry's name, which is good for both of us. Through
some fast talking from Larry and using his newly-minted Florida driver's
license, his has an area code of 786 -- Miami, Florida. Mine has the number
of my circa-2004 flip phone, which both the salesperson and Logan treat
with almost superstitious awe, including a long discussion of the
monochrome, greenish, no-touch screen.

The guy apologises for not having a way to transfer the numbers and 'Larry'
replies in an undertone, "Don't bother. Most of them are probably dead
anyhow." After a few pointed (and fake) threats of cancelling the whole
thing, Logan winks and apologises contritely for the salesperson's
benefit. The receipt is about eleven feet long, with contract print small
enough to flummox a literate ant. To tell them apart, I get a wallet-style
case in what Logan snarkily calls 'grandpa-black' before I give him a
death-glare. The extra money for the flashy red phones (even though you can
barely see it on mine) is worth it; proceeds help fight AIDS.

The phones, apparently, do everything up to and including making coffee in
the morning. I bask in the reflected delight pouring off Logan as he and
the salesman strip away all the packaging and secrete the goodies around
Logan's person, then program the things to hell and back. We finally leave
the store and hail a cab (which Logan crowingly pays for by touching his
new phone to the card-swipe box) and step out on the brisk chill of Pier 83
with about thirty minutes before the tour sets sail.

The tour is... hellishly cold! What is a brisk, chill breeze on the
heat-island pavements of New York City is a murderous arctic blast on the
blank water of the Hudson, especially when sailing around Ellis Island, the
Statue of Liberty and Governor's Island with little to block the icy
winds. I tend to huddle and simply smile as Logan pushes the little red
phone to its picture-taking limit. We each have one of the blue-tooth (at
that point, blue-EAR) speaker-in-the-ear-remote-thingies so we can hear the
commentary of the 'app' as well as that of the boat's tour guide. Both are
fun.

Even Logan is shivering when we finally get back to Pier 83 two or so hours
later. Cabs are waiting and we get into one and I just hand the driver one
of the cards from the hotel, too frozen to speak. The doorman is there to
get up into the toasty lobby, but we still flee to the room quickly, teeth
chattering.  Once inside the room, I strip both of us bare in seconds. The
cold has finally caught up to the young and still-thin Logan who just
stands quaking. I smile and pull him with me to the bed. "Come on, my love,
I know how to get you warm. I have experience."

He smiles then frowns, "Y-y-y-y-you s-s-said, 'm-m-m-y love'." He wraps
every part of himself around me and smothers me with a treasury of cold,
wet kisses. I eventually end up with him curled in front of me, trapping
his icy feet between my thighs (with only one small scream as his heels
iced my nads), wrapping myself around his foetal-position body as if I were
his cocoon and wishing to be nothing less.

Morning dawns with painfully-brittle light. It's clear what happened. It
wasn't just the transition to the water that made the cruise so brutal; a
cold front had moved in. We look out to see what Maria called Magic Snow:
tiny little pellets blurring the horizons from the hotel window that will
be, at most, a wet mist by the time they reached street level.

We breakfast in the concierge suite and I call down to tell the front desk
we plan to check out the next day, then call Christopher with the same
news. He agrees to be at the hotel around eleven. I make three copies of
everything in the envelope, including the ID cards, then 'Larry' and I
begin sorting our wallets. My shiny new phone case gets my NY driver's
license, my Chase Sapphire card and my CignaGlobal healthcare card -- with
those three and my passport, I can go anywhere.

We dawdle long enough to finally leave for my lawyer's office. I say, 'my
lawyer', when in fact it's a firm. Maria found them over two decades
ago. They were started by a legal-thriller author who was actually a
lawyer. He made just enough to realise just how utterly pathetic legal
services were for writers and other 'creatives' and built a very nice
boutique service that did everything from contract and copyright to
personal and family law.

As it happens, I've spent a lot of time either on the phone or in person
with Jennifer Olivetti, Esquire, since Maria's death and she greets me
sombrely but with enthusiasm. She is a delightful child. She asks if I'm
finally ready to make a new will since the existing one, obviously, is
moot. I was emotionally incapable of dealing with that after Maria passed.

I introduce her to Larry but without the fake relationship backstory. I
confirm that anything we say is completely confidential and she gets
serious. "Larry and I are... romantically involved. I want to be certain
that he gets my estate, outside those things already earmarked for
bequests." She asks a long series of questions to strictly define virtually
every word in the sentence I'd just said.

"Stettler, part of my job is to protect your interests. So soon on the
heels of your loss, such an incredibly-drastic change without certain
defensive measures would put your will at serious risk of being overturned
if anyone challenges it."

"Okay, what are our options?" She instantly spots the use of plural
possessive determiner.

She sighs. "A lot of that has to do with how much you are willing for the
world to know, Stettler. I want to get the most-impactful and
most-important out of the way first. Can I bring Singleton in for a
minute?" Jonathan Singleton is an entertainment lawyer as well as familiar
with my contracts. I have never heard anyone, including him, use his first
name.

I nod and he joins us shortly, greeting me warmly and expressing his
condolences. "Singleton, this is completely under privilege," He nods,
unfazed; most of what he does is, "Stettler, I am sorry to make this
so... clinical and heartless, but you need some facts before we go
further. Stettler and Mr Mallory are in a committed relationship. Can you
give us an overview of the public implications of a marriage?"

My head and that of Logan whip around so quickly that I wince at my own
whiplash. Marriage? Huh?

Singleton's eyebrows go up, "In Stettler's genre? Short term, ten percent
backlash, maybe fifteen so quickly after losing his wife, balanced by at
least fifteen percent or more from those who will feed off the
love-triumphant theme. Long term? Zero or perhaps sub-percent
improved. When [____]," a mutual friend who writes highly-erotic,
macho-centric action-thrillers, "got married to her long-time girlfriend,
her next book hit The List." New York Times Bestseller List. "My best
suggestion is to utterly ignore that from a financial and commercial
perspective." He smirks slightly, "The guys over at [____] House might not
agree, but they're insanely risk-averse. Other questions?"

"No. I just wanted Stettler to have the facts clearly in mind. Actually,
yes. Flash back to your Hollywood days for a minute. Outside the legal side
of things, what should Stettler and Mr Mallory expect?"

Singleton relaxes and loosens his collar, a 'tell' that he is exiting
Lawyer Mode. "This isn't legal opinion or even expert opinion, but just a
series of guesses." We all nod at the caveat. "You will both face some
stark and highly-personal questions, especially about whether you were
involved before your wife passed, Stettler. It will hurt, and I mean hurt a
lot. The nature of your relationship with Maria will itself become the
topic of open, often spiteful discussion. Were you *together* or just
'together' for instance.

"Your core friends knew you and Maria too well and won't even bat an eye,
but I'm talking reporters and people who never really knew either of you in
depth. That said, it will pass almost like the weather when the next social
news breaks. But don't get me wrong. It will be brutal for a time. And the
age difference will make it much, much worse, and make it linger longer."

"Thanks, Singleton, unless Stettler has more questions? No? Then thanks for
the consult."

Singleton leaves. "So, we have five paths. Marriage, adoption, beneficiary,
trust and bequest," Jennifer continues. "Marriage is the strongest from a
legal perspective. Spousal rights-of-survivorship backed by a clear and
thorough will would be nearly unassailable unless the laws of New York
change regarding same-sex marriage, which is unlikely in the immediate
future.

"I mention adoption because it is, in fact, and option. It would be a
stupid one. Others know or will find out that you are sexually involved,
and such involvement would be an easy hammer with which to break a will
based upon adoption.

"Straight beneficiary would be good, but not unassailable. In your case,
considering that marriage is an option that you chose not to take, along
with the age difference would make the will suspect. That would be true to
a lesser extend with a trust, but Larry would never have access to the fund
directly on a trust, only the proceeds, which nullifies any potential
benefits of a trust.

"The last is a bequest, or leaving a specific, limited amount to Larry and
creating a new scheme to disperse the remainder. That would be
virtually-ironclad. I can't recall such a will being overturned outside
billionaires in my lifetime."

I stared, shocked. Jennifer smiles sadly.

"This is a nasty world, Stettler. I am going to draw up papers for you to
sign here, now, not as a new will be as a bequest attached to the existing
will, along with a codicil about Maria's death to reapportion unbequeathed
assets. You can NOT let this sits long, the tax implications of this route
are monstrous if anything significant changes. Go home. Think about
it. Decide what you want to do and get back to me."

A few minutes of talk gets me breathing again and she gets us settled, then
retreats to some sanctum sanctorum to perform the legal rituals that led to
a signable document. She returns and has both of us sign several thousand
pages of gibberish then ushers us out. A cab magically appears and I
mutter, "Museum at Eldridge Street. Eldridge between Canal and, uh,
Division."

A few moments (perhaps 20 minutes) later, Logan is pulling me from the cab
in one of the most confusing spaces in New York. Around us is the riot of
Chinatown with hardly a sign in English at all. To our right is the looming
bustle of the Manhattan Bridge. In the middle of all this stands what could
be regal church teleported from virtually any city in Europe, complete with
columns, arches and stained-glass windows. It exists in its current form,
in a very small part, from monies Maria and I gave and helped raised to
rebuild this synagogue that dates from the influx of Jews to the United
States in the 1880s. It is, perhaps, one of the most-perfect place on this
end of Manhattan to... think.

It shares much with the contender, the incredible majesty of The Cloisters
at the far north end of the island. Both are steeped in history of worlds
that, for a time, passed them by and let them sink into obscurity, only to
be resurrected by later generations. It is also a truly beautiful place. I
stuff a large-denomination bill through to the attendant and basically
sleep-walk past her, Logan telling her to keep the change as a donation. I
walk to the far rear corner and sit, and Logan sinks beside me. Tourists
bustle past, whispering in awe or giggling at the anachronisms and the
arcana of the Jewish faith.

I've never been religious, nor even particularly spiritual. In many ways
that does not matter here. A Jewish temple is actually a hall dedicated to
'right living' or Halakha, the collected wisdom and laws of the Jewish
worldview. It makes no clear distinction between religious and
non-religious life. This is a place, quite simply, of the ultimate Law, the
essence of rightness. I feel a sudden pang at the thought that I'd spent
the previous dinner at a place call BarBacon! But I'm not here for the
surface trappings, but from the deepest possible meaning of the Law, of
rightness. I'm here to reconcile who I was with who I think I might become
-- I turn and gaze at Logan's worried but heartbreakingly-perfect face --
and both of those with the miracle sitting beside me, the face speckled
with colours from the stained glass we sit before: The man I truly love.

<eof>

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Lake Desolation: 16 chapters .../rural/lake-desolation/
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