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Shaking his head in disbelief, Ted was rendered speechless. His body language spoke volumes of the extent of the ennui that pulsed through his body. Legs akimbo, knees flexed, hands in pockets, he flung his head back and flashed epithets to the gods. The small vein at the thinnest part of his temple pulsed, the gristle in his neck cracked.
Bloody hell – women!
He never did get them. Never did. Never would. It was a foreign land where he wandered as a lamb to the slaughter. He couldn’t take the leap to hyperspace that was required to fill the missing links between thought and speech as their nimble minds flittered. It was the undertow that caused him grief. He took the words as gospel. Again and again he forgot that the words were but the scaffolding on which was tacked a layer of meaning to which he was not privy.
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