He could have walked out on this earlier, could still walk. Rationality shrieked at him. "Let it go, Kincaid, get back on the road. Shoot the bridges, go to India. Stop in Bangkok on the way and look up the silk merchant's daughter who knows every ecstatic secret the old way can teach. Swim naked with her at down in jungle pools and listen to her scream as you turn her inside out at twilight. Let go of this" - the voice was hissing now - "it's outrunning you."
But the slow street tango had begun. Somewhere it played; he could hear it, an old accordion. It was far back or far ahead, he couldn't be sure. Yet it moved toward him steadily. And the sound of it blurred his criteria and funneled his own alternatives toward unity. Inexorably it did that, until there was nowhere left to go, except toward Francesca Johnson.
But the slow street tango had begun. Somewhere it played; he could hear it, an old accordion. It was far back or far ahead, he couldn't be sure. Yet it moved toward him steadily. And the sound of it blurred his criteria and funneled his own alternatives toward unity. Inexorably it did that, until there was nowhere left to go, except toward Francesca Johnson.
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