Lo’s chest jerked erratically, like somewhere under the bed there was a man with a rope tugging on his ribs. The jerks slowed until he was still, and Puck worried the man had died on him. Not now, not when they’d contacted the big guy behind it all. He poked Lo’s shoulder, and the man’s eyes opened a sliver. Puck inclined, trying to angle himself to be visible in that narrow swath of eyelid.
“So what was he like?” he asked.
Lo put a hand over his face. “Have you ever looked at a stained glass window?”
“Really, he looked like all that white iconography? That’s almost disappointing…”
“No,” Lo cut him off. “No. Imagine looking at an eyeball.”
“Except your eyes are stained glass windows. None of the optic nerves, cones or rods. And your beautiful stained glass windows are looking at an eyeball. Yeah.”
“That makes no sense.”
Lo removed his hand and looked up at Puck’s eyeballs. “It makes new sense. I’d never looked as a stained glass window before.”
“What the crap does that mean?”
“It may mean you have to see him yourself to talk about it. Or…”
“Or what?” Puck snapped.
“Or you can appreciate my best attempts to tell you what it was like.”
With that Lo laid back down and rolled his back to the ingrate. Next time Puck could have his own epiphany.