That was the neat thing about the slow place, although of course at the moment the world had slowed nearly to a stop, stretched as it was by adrenalin and the serious, disembodied suspicion that she might not survive the whole experience. Bertie, under her, stretched his hand as if the fire-alarm were still under it, his lips parted in warning and his eyes open, pale blue-green glass lit in apocalyptic flame as they threw back the opal interplay of green death-ray, golden phoenix-flame and blue-violet ice. He really was gorgeous, she thought, and if she were going to die anyway, maybe she should … She glanced to one side, to be sure the kitchen crew were still safe under the barricade. They hadn’t moved, of course, because the barricade had caught the first impetus of the explosion and recoiled, as she’d meant it to, the loose debris taking up the shock. It’s a shame I can’t turn that for extra credit in physics lab, she thought, and then turned to the serious business of kissing Bertie, because it might just be now or never.
[Author’s Note: This would be the first time I’ve posted a Romantic and/or Naughty Bit, of which more in next week’s Six Sentence Sunday post. Happy New Year!]