081413 #worm #roach Me imagines, regardless. At some point, his imagination decides that an awkward exchange of digits in a doomed cafe is not really romantic enough, and, drawing its pershidium from the thump thump thump of Me's humble shoes against the corridor's floor, where Me walks a few paces behind the smouldering Him, it makes Me the owner of a dashing, low-mileage, tricked out, sub-Ethereally equipped spaceship, and of a more substantial sense of theatre. His imagination, not finished yet, randy creature that it still sometimes becomes, also grants Me the know-how to pilot the ship, and the privelege of swooping down on an astonished and immediately horny Krim--whereupon the two of them go blasting off into the moonrise on a real, old-fashioned, rocket-fueled date. So Me spanks her a lot, making the little control room get all hot and booty-smelling, and he learns some really interesting things from her about the wines of Dotlong, and he twirls his unlit cigarette while they lean against a navigational computer console. They gesticulate through all the gone, gone flirtations of the definitely-going-to-fuck-tonight while Him, sitting by the next computer console over--is it the weapons station? communications? auto-chef? who knows--listens as intently as a rabbit, or an eagle, or a sub-Ethereal intelligence satellite falling slowly out of orbit, out of synchronicity.