trickle of scalding
water.

Art has switched off his comm, his frazzled nerves no longer capable of coping
with its perennial and demanding beeping and buzzing. This is very nearly
unthinkable but necessary, he rationalizes, given the extraordinary events of
the past twenty-four hours. And Fede can go fuck himself, for that matter, that
paranoid asshole, and then he can fuck the clients in Jersey and the whole of
V/DT while he's at it.

The energy bev is kicking in and making his heart race and his pulse throb in
his throat and he's so unbearably hyperkinetic that he turns the coffee table on
its end in the galley kitchen and clears a space in the living room that's
barely big enough to spin around in, and starts to work through a slow, slow set
of Tai Chi, so slow that he barely moves at all, except that inside he can feel
the moving, can feel the muscles' every flex and groan as they wind up release,
move and swing and slide.

Single whip slides into crane opens wings and he needs to crouch down low, lower
than his woolen slacks will let him, and they're grimy and gross anyway, so he
undoes his belt and kicks them off. Down low as white crane opens wings and
brush knee, punch, apparent closure, then low again, creakingly achingly low
into wave hands like clouds, until his spine and his coccyx crackle and give,
springing open, fascia open ribs open smooth breath rising and falling with his
diaphragm smooth mind smooth and sweat cool in the mat of his hair.

He moves through the set and does not notice Linda until he unwinds into a slow,
ponderous lotus kick, closes again, breathes a moment and looks around slowly,
grinning like a holy fool.

She's in a tartan housecoat with a threadbare towel wrapped around her hair,
water beading on her bony ankles and long, skinny feet. "Art! God*damn*, Art!
What the hell was that?"

"Tai chi," he says, drawing a deep breath in through his nostrils, feeling each
rib expand in turn, exhaling through his mouth. "I do it to unwind."

"It was beautiful! Art! Art. Art. That was, I mean, wow. Inspiring. Something.
You're going to show me how to do that, Art. Right? You're gonna."

"I could try," Art says. "I'm not really qualified to teach it -- I stopped
going to class ten years ago."

"Shut, shut up, Art. You can teach that, damn, you can teach that, I know you
can. That was, wow." She rushes forward and takes his hands. She squeezes and
looks into his eyes. She squeezes again a