The Peacock 1846

Tron guides me to the armchairs in the middle, turns on the antique standing Tiffany lamp, and we settle into two perpendicular chairs.  It is a very comfortable well cushioned antique armchair that almost swallows me alive.  Tron moves and jostles his chair till it is flush with the one I am sitting in.  The arms of both chairs are very wide and adorned with dark polished wood, mine is deep forest green to the deep maroon velour of Tron's chair.  He picks up the very top book from the table and lays it across our chained chair arms.  The cover is all deep blue and purple and green covered with gold arabesques in the design of a gothic cathedral labyrinth.  I am aware of how absolutely quiet it is here.  Silence is so strong here  to be providing an almost background music, though it totally taxes me to describe any further this most peculiar and delicious sensation. "Won't you open the book", he says rather than asks. I almost dread touching this incredibly beautiful object.  I am afraid that my hands, my very fingertips, might be dirty, and that contact from me would somehow smudge and defile this immaculate object. "I feel unworthy to open the book." "Unworthy you are, dear Christopher, to open the book.  But still, open it you must."