His hand wrapped firmly around the base of the spoon, taut muscle cast in relief against its smooth lines.
Its shimmering concavity held a warped image, distorting perspective, proportion, reason. Inverted, a lens flare caught in his eyes, light like holy fire blazing in this mirror-self.
"No word," spake his gaze.
"An oath of silence," the fervent non-verbal reply.
The devout remained rigid, fixed, smooth as oil paintings of Christ and twice as radiant.
He licked his lips, mouth already wet.
His smooth skull bore testament to his devotion, its texture perfectly silken, not a hint of lumpiness of the granularity of less cultured works of art. The graceful wrinkles of his brow evenly folded on one another, an ancient undulating pattern that bespoke both softness and substance.
This was life distilled. Beyond a mere question of taste—this, this was sacred focus, divine immersion.
The peerless purity of their skin, their lines, their gaze, the unity of their beings, the melting melding of their flawless colors, textures—flavors?—
His fist tightened about the shaft and they inhaled as one.
They began to speak in tongues.