Circle of Flight

Thorus, the vengeful, had determined his way. Aria, the healer, had determined her way. Which determined this classic meeting of the twain.
IT SEEMED they had argued for years as they were arguing tonight. The man paced back and forth chain-smoking cigarettes; the woman sat motionless, watching him. They glanced at their watches with fearful eyes. They heard, with acutely alert ears, the goings and comings of people in the hall; heard the shattering blast of rockets in the sky above the city. And they argued.
So you're going through with it tonight, he said heavily, in your own way.
Yes.
Perhaps I should stop you. He crushed out his cigarette. If the police were to hear—
No! The word was thrown at him. I know you don't mean that. But it's unworthy of you even to say it. She covered her face with nervous hands. After all I am your wife.
He stood over her, his lips tight. There was something of the fragile, finely made puppet about her, he thought, as though she had been refashioned a hundred times by some artisan seeking after perfect delicacy and precision. He softened momentarily.
Come with me then, he said.
No.
Why? Why?