When Time Ran Crooked

58 hours, 35 minutes and 11 seconds Until

"Why did you even ask me to dance?" I asked, softly.

Claude had fallen silent awhile ago, but didn't protest to my silent humming of the soundtracks from the Lion King, followed by Aladdin. His fingers rested gently on my waist, his cheek leaning against my hair as I pressed my own face into his neck. His skin was warm and emitted a woody aroma.

I could feel his lips moving against my head, stirring my hair, as he spoke. "I don't know."

"I thought you were supposed to know everything," I replied. There was a hint of a question in my words and I knew he heard it.

"No one knows everything," he reasoned.

"Bullshit," I countered. "You know about physics and Moby Dick and French an-"

"I still don't know everything," Claude argued, interrupting me. "I know everything I need to know. And for me that is everything."

"What makes up everything you know to you?" I asked. I asked because I wondered what it was that ignited the fireworks of his mind, that allowed the sparks to dance on his tongue and turn his word to molten lava that scorched the very air he breathed. I asked because I wanted to know what made him alive.

Claude was silent for a moment. I could practically hear his mind working from him, twisting and turning the rusty gears of his mind to slow generate a result. Then, "That's kind of a loaded question."

It took me a second to comprehend what he was implying before I couldn't help but laugh. "If there's too much in a question about your intelligence to answer, are you trying to say that you are just too smart to answer?"

"No," he said, quickly. "But . . . if you want to say that, I'm not going to deny it."

"You're an asshole," I told him, but now I was laughing. I leaned back from his grasp as I did so, and I found myself staring at his chuckling mouth. I blinked, looking back into his clear blue eyes. His hands were still at my waist.

That smile still sat on his lips. "Whatever, Bees. I just know you're jealous."

 Bees. I liked that.

"Me, jealous of you?" I questioned. "You must be on some crazy drugs if you think that could ever be true."

"And you must have had too much to drink to think that I've been actually doing drugs," he retorted.

"And you know that I have had too much to drink because yes," I replied.

Claude laughed. "Because yes is not quite scientific reasoning, but I'll accept it."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, why, thank you, Sir. Or should I say, my most gracious Lord?"

Now it was his turn to roll his eyes.

"Now, I think we need to make a battle plan," I told Claude, gingerly removing his hands from his side before taking a step back to create more room between us.

He scowled, puzzled. "Battle plan?"

"Yes," I confirmed. "I'm thinking that you should order room service while I take a shower, because between my black attire and flu I'm starting to resemble the Black Death."

Claude was still frowning. "I don't know if I should be more concerned that you are willing to classify yourself by one of the most devastating illnesses of human history, or that you call eating and showering a battle plan."

I shrugged. "I'll give you a piece of advice my middle school teacher gave me: when you don't know the answer, circle C and move on."

My response did nothing to diminish the downward quirking of his mouth, so I just figured he was a lost cause and went to shower.