My lord Krishna, my dearest, my only ( Read more... )

Chris is writing and frowning. His handwriting is ornate as calligraphy, even when he's displeased.

The words "abandonment" and "self-indulgent" are visible.

He won't send it. But he'll feel better for having written it.

From somewhere in the palace comes the sound of flute music and drums--exactly where, it's hard to say. Perhaps the music is something that Chris--more Krishna here than anyone else--just carries around with him ( Read more... )

Chris's New York apartment is as lush and opulent as his home in India is cool and spare. The curtains are purple velvet, the paint is deep dark red, there are cushions and overstuffed couches and statues and bookcases. There are flower arrangements on endtables--gifts from admirers, mostly, though many simply because Chris likes having flowers ( Read more... )

The Cosmic Cow is one of those coffee shops where a cat can sit unconcernedly on a table, a chess game can go on for days, and the lattes are always perfectly foamy.

Chris likes it for those reasons, and many others.

He opens the door for Xander and follows him in, glad to be out of the autumn chill. "Order whatever you'd like."

There is a saying: If Mohammed cannot come to the mountain, the mountain will go to Mohammed ( Read more... )

Come see, come see :).

ETA: Except for the part where the background graphic isn't showing up. Boo.