Still Life With Sonnet

Mary Stacy

Sa/Am, G


Maybe this all had been a major mistake, she thought squirming uncomfortably in the straight back reception chair, watching the minutes sweep by on her watch. She could have played this safe; she could have mailed the book.  But then how many hands would it have passed through in the name of security, perhaps never to reach its intended recipient.

"Ms. Grayson, the ambassador will see you now."

The words cut through the silence, and she jumped, a little startled, having been lulled into the belief that she would leave before hearing them.  She stood up and straightened her suit, took a breath and walked through the door, hearing the firm click from the other side as it closed behind her.

The private office she knew well, but the official one was new to her and it was massive, larger than her entire apartment, meant to showcase the culture and
lifestyle that it's owner represented as that world's embodiment of its finest and best. Its walls, covered in vibrant life-like tapestries telling the history of a planet and flanked with statues of its most illustrious citizens, glimmering, each carved in a single massive semi-precious stone and lit subtly from within. She tried to soften her pace across the highly polished mosaic floor, but she knew the slight click of her heels could be heard to reverberate across the room until it reached the occupant's sprawling marble and glass desk on the far side.

He didn't look up from the com unit that held his concentration, only motioning her to sit when she came within a few steps.  This chair, presumably meant for a more prestigious bottom, was a little more comfortable than the last, but her proximity to her destination made her want to squirm more than the last. Again she waited, never patient to begin with, her limit stretched, she opened her mouth to speak.

"Amanda." He spoke her name so softly and musically, Ah-mahn-dah, stretching the a's with an easy elegance. Would anyone else ever manage to stir her with the simple magic of saying her name?

"Sarek," she felt like an awkward schoolgirl, but she was an awkward schoolgirl, "I heard your assignment is ending."

"You did?"

"Yes, I did." She felt silly, this was so stupid to suddenly feel so at ends with him, "On the vid feed, they said you would be leaving in a few weeks. I know you've been very busy and I wanted to say goodbye while I still had the chance."

"So you came to say goodbye?" He finally looked up, his dark green eyes clouded.

She shifted in her seat, pulling a small parcel from her carry bag, "I wanted to give you this.  I know you had mentioned you admired some of our poetry and this, this is one of my favorites."

He raised his impressive brows and looked in her eyes for a moment, holding them.  She was a like the proverbial deer in headlights, transfixed by his gaze. Was he really searching for something or was this truly her imagination, an imagination that had led her to rest at this improbable end?

Carefully opening the gift, he turned the book over and let it rest it his right hand. His elegant fingers encased it, a fragile treasure, as he had unknowingly held her heart, his left hand gently rifling though the pages.

She held her breath, she hadn't expected him to read it here and now and suddenly found herself regretting the choice of a gift.  She silently prayed that he
wouldn't open it to—

"And wilt thou have me fashion into speech,

The love I bear thee, finding words enough…"

How did he do that?  Make his voice modulate with the barest hint of feeling, and yet somehow give the words more impact then any emotional reading?

"…and rend the garment of my life, in brief,

By a most dauntless, voiceless fortitude,

Lest one touch of this heart convey its grief. "

He finished the poem and closed the book, his fingers playing along its edges; he stood up and moved to the window, still holding it within his grasp.  His back was turned to her, but she could imagine a tension across his shoulders and neck. If she could just ease it away, if things were only different, she would just walk over to him and tell him how she felt, and maybe she might be offered something in return.

"The vids were wrong.  I vacate my assignment in three weeks, but my plans had been to remain here for a month further. I had thought," he paused then turned toward her, "but perhaps I was mistaken."

She fought against every impulse in her body not to scream no, and that might have put her in better stead.  Instead, she sank into the chair, unable to muffle the sobs that came from deep within her, the wrenching sound of impossible dreams facing an end.

"Amanda?"

He didn't, wouldn't know how to handle her like this. She should run from here now, run away and she would never see him again.  She could take this pain and lock it up in a tiny forgotten corner of her mind, never to feel like this again.

"I'm sorry.  I didn't mean it to be like this." She glanced up at him. She had expected to see at best indifference or at worse disgust in his face.  Instead he had moved closer to her, dropping down till he was at her eye level.  He laid the book on the floor beside he chair, and took her hands in his.

"I think, Amanda Grayson, we have much to discuss you and I."

He raised his hands and held her face within them, now letting his thumbs gently caress away her tears.  And when she looked into his eyes again, she saw her future reflected in them.