He walked in strides but took time between each to straighten his hat which fit just a little poorly. It tilted ever so down on his ear and his head itched for it each time. His eyes were brown swirling almonds that had been gifted to him fifty years ago by his mother’s womb. God rest her dear soul.

His belief that the way a man entered a place said more about him than the growth of his ‘stache rung true as he kicked the door off of its hinges. No less than three yelps and one scream brushed the whiskers of his early chin growth. These sounds, yes, the true bellows of masculine energy fully observed.

“Gooday!” He straightened his hat and walked right past two ladies at the table and a gentleman no longer reclined on a leather shezlong. On his way through he informed the gentleman of his opinion on leather goods by kicking both of his shins in a two-time pattern. A smile started to break out on his lips and he held it back with the force of his impenetrable will. The kicked man folded over like old kale.

“Marcus! Where are you off to now?” said one of the ladies. Marcus, by the trill notes of the dame, knew with instrumental precision it came from the lips of the one with the aged lungs. Beauty only lasts as long as the lung is young, thought Marcus. How he wished more women had more lips and lungs like his unmatched Jadine.

Marcus without looking back called out, “Tah ho! Anyone in the kitchen?” And his interlude in the room was punctuated with the removal of a second door, so deftly that his stride pattern hardly erred. One of the ladies who wore a necklace laced with emergency gunpowder cradled her face in her hands. The second lady only wished she was two, so she might attend to the shinned man and the distressed lady equally.

“My God. An image worthy of a window in the church of Christ (God bless).” Marcus handled his gaze like an island coast mortar gun. It ran smooth on ball-bearings, but it had momentum – at times he overshot what he wanted to look at and had to veer in the other direction. He stood still, in a room, it appeared, completely made from oyster shells shipped from the planet Brif. Various lines erupted from him as he paced the room: “I’m helpless to it’s majesty.” “That’s real Brifian oyster.” “Feed me plumed pigeon for three meals and yet I’d still be hungry for this.” He selected a finger – his fore one – and ran it along the counter, the oyster shell was without a blemish or a crevice and he knew his fingers were dense with sensation and would know a nook if they found it.

The cupboards were an intellectual strain, for they were impeccable in their operation: without hinges one just had to place a finger or nose against the lower third and it floated open, entirely without a hinge. But the machines! These were no looms for fools, not bloated beasts with congestions of cogs, loud, angry, and hazardous. What he found before him, Marcus only knew it for machine because it handled itself intelligently yet was inhuman. A cylindrical device, like a microscope, but with a matrix of buttons shining blue like the mythical sapphire, and – he pushed one – it jettisoned great tubes of fluid that ran everywhere and would have spoiled that perfect white counter top if it were not for the Mizzets. And he knew the Mizzets by name, but why he knew that, this he did not know. They moved much like the liquid from the microscope, but with intention equal to a hand selecting a choice chocolate from a box. Within three flutters of his thick eyelids, Marcus witnessed micro motile Mizzets grab the very droplets mid-drip, carve cut, drink, slurp, and in doing so transmogrify liquid to gas, which he allowed to enter both his nostrils. It smelled sharp and sweet and was a delightful roast from the Dundric Shores of Murdon-4. His mind then suddenly transformed into a canvas. Painted upon it was himself reclined, the sand before his toes, the waves before the sand. He surveyed those iconic red waves of Murdon-4, each a perfect pyramid due to the gravitation affects of its thirteen artificial moons –

“Marcus! For heavens sake.” Jadine hoisted her own dress up to make space for her knees to stretch over the door on the floor. She seized Marcus by his elbow but did more than jostle him a little. Marcus, at first, continued to swim, but resurfaced and turned to Jadine. He smiled twice around his own head.

“Jadine!” He was elated. He began to show her the unique qualities of the kitchen. “Is it not marvellous! Come here look, look,” and he pushed the blue button on the machine and another jet of fluid came forth. Not one drop made it to Marcus’s suede shoes before the Mizzets had gobbled it all up. Jadine did not look at the machine, nor the Mizzets, but kept a steady gaze on Marcus. Across his face she cast it, looking for an answer to her questions. “Marcus?” Marcus beamed as he then presented the magical cupboards, emphasized the Brifian oyster composition, showed her this and that until when he was done he came up to her and said what do you think with his hands everywhere above him like he had to hold it all down or it might fly away.

Jadine had three things to say and they were the same thing in quick succession and without word: gasp, gasp, gasp. She struggled to swallow down a weight that had been tied to her tongue. “Marcus, I,” she stammered and then as if remembering herself, “it is getting near teatime. More guests will be arriving soon. Come, they expect warm tea and greetings – and do you know where Jonathan is – I asked him to collect the coats!” Jadine grabbed Marcus’s hand, started to pull him out of the room. Marcus resisted at first, made to say goodbye to every one of the Mizzets, but he let the current of Jadine’s force carry him out and away.

The room which Marcus had bellowed his way through was now deserted. George, whom Marcus had attempted a right de-shinning, had recovered some of his standing capabilities and was in the greater lounger with the other guests who had arrived. Jadine still held Marcus’s hand tight, even though Marcus had stopped reciprocating the grasp. They were moved through three rooms and four doors – only one did Marcus make to extend a foot, but Jadine hit him on his waistcoat before he could execute. They came within ten paces of the entrance to the great lounge. The entrance, it stood heigh enough to let in two guests stacked vertically, should they decide to arrive one of the shoulder of the other. There were wonderful carvings of animals along the frame of the entrance, too.

Jadine stopped them, which almost sent Marcus to the floor. Realizing he was back in control, he straightened his back, pulled his coat tighter by his pits, and stretched his face ready for expressions of greeting. “Marcus, now. Tonight – please! – tonight, can we just have one normal – “

“Jadine. Jadine. Jadine, my diamond. My ornamental angel. Jadine.” Marcus adopted a warmth and held both her shoulders like he was ready to throw a life-ring. Jadine usually despised this admiration of her, it made her feel as valued as the inside colouring of a trophy. But right now it came as a comfort: it was words of sense. Her shoulders softened.

“Jadine, please my darling. Do not let your lips tremble more – it will will ruin your softened perfect complexion for our guests. Come, prepare for us to float, gracefully, I promise.” And Marcus held them there for a moment longer. He looked upon Jadine, and took her all in in that moment. The locks of her hair, made slightly red by the gold light of the chandelier about. Her eyelashes, somehow she had managed to extend them twice their length and they clasped like claws. Her brow, he could run a thread over it and not a hair would intersect they were that straight. He counted them: one, two, three, four – and up and up, all sixteen of her eyebrows. My, my, a gentleman like himself must have incredible tongue to deserve a gift of angelic proportions as Jadine. Her mouths, he then took to taking these in, one at a time. How unfortunate the man who can kiss only two lips and no more – he had twenty to delight himself in, each as plush as the last. And what sonorous notes they could deliver, too – he never knew which one to look at when he spoke, but this he treated like trying to parse a violin from a great concert: impossible.

And finally he took her hand in his. Her skin was more pale here so the veins almost glowed through, and he adored how it naturally grew embellishments, little jade emeralds every inch or so. Each one he kissed, and then kissed the tip of her finger, just above the eye (which squeezed close in that cute, innocent manner). He finished his exploration by pulling Jadine close to him, against his chest. The top of her head stopped just below his chin, and this gave him perfect access to whisper into her single ear there:

“Jadine. Tonight will be as normal as a blueberry pie. Let us go now, I hear the murmur of guests at the door.”

And they passed into the great lounge, Jadine clung gently to Marcus’s arm, floating along like the King and Queen Aflame of The Everlasting Neutron Spitters.