And the way they looked at each other as they moved so fluidly across the cement—it seemed so intimate I began to feel like an intruder. I found it curious, however, that their auras were the exact same shade of pink. I’ve never come across two or more people completely in tune with each other’s auras—much less this rare hue. It was the softest color, quite beautiful to look at. It shone brighter than the lamp posts.
The celestial feelings that vibrated from their bodies into mine, the taste of the music and the still midnight air, the ethereal quality of their synchronized auras, the loving thoughts they were too afraid to say out loud—became so overwhelming I began to cry. So I wrenched myself away from the moment, knowing that it was not mine, and teleported back to my room.
I think about that feeling every now and again, but I never came across it a second time.
Once I finish the piece, I look up and notice the moisture welling up in Hermes’ eyes. I reach up and carefully wipe them away with my knuckles. Gentle applause sounds from all around the room and I smile politely, mouthing a thank you.
Just superb, Dionysus praises telepathically, raising his glass to me with a wide grin.
I look over at Hermes and feel momentarily shocked upon seeing the color of his aura, which starts to match the young lovers’ almost perfectly. He looks at me in the funniest way; his brows are pushed together, eyes brimming with a million desperate words—but he doesn’t say anything. I take a few selfish seconds to absorb his feelings and thoughts, and for those seconds, I am in half in love with him.