Poetry and Heavy Objects
By Laura Schiller
Based on Star Trek: The Next Generation
"I've been wondering about something," said Deanna.
She and Worf were sitting in a quiet corner of Ten-Forward, sipping drinks, at enough distance from the other patrons that their low conversation could not be overheard. She watched the stars streaking by behind himand the way he sat, his hand coiled around his glass, always alert even in his most relaxed moments. And this was a relaxed moment, she thought; the best time to open up a potentially ify subject.
"Is it true that before Klingons … make love … the man reads poetry and the woman throws heavy objects?" She couldn't help letting out a nervous little laugh."I thought perhaps the person who gave out that rumor was playing a joke."
It wouldn't be the first time, after all, young Wesley had behaved like the immature teenager he was.
"Did Wesley spread that story across the whole ship?" Worf scowled. "That was not my intention."
It was just as well Wesley was no longer on board. Not that Worf would actually hurt the boy, but he would certainly scare the stuffing out of him.
"You see, Worf," said Deanna, clasping her mug of hot chocolate in her hands and leaning slightly forward. "We've been dating for about two months now … "
"Two months, five days."
"Yes." She smiled; it was sweet of him to remember the exact date. "And I've been thinking about … moving our relationship to the next level. What that would mean for us. And how to do it, practically speaking. I mean … I don't know very much about Klingon mating behaviors."
"Nor I about Betazoid ones," Worf admitted. "I imagine it is … similar to the Human way."
His face was carefully expressionless; he was trying not to be jealous of the various Human and Betazoid lovers Deanna had been with before him. He glanced left and right.
"I think we should move this discussion to a more private setting."
She nodded and rose up, finishing her drink and smoothing her long turquoise skirt in that elegant way she had, like a lady rising from her throne. Neither of them spoke a word as they walked out the room, down the corridor and into a turbolift; one of the few truly private places aboard a starship.
"So. Heavy objects?"
Deanna quirked an eyebrow up at him, defusing the tension slightly.
"To be honest, I am not sure," Worf admitted. "The ritual I mentioned to Wesley is described in Klingon romance novels and erotica. I have only ever been with K'Ehleyr … there were no poetry or heavy objects involved. I can imagine that … physical exertion would help to get one's adrenalin flowing. The reading of poetry seems to me … incongruous."
"Betazoids enjoy reading poetry after," said Deanna, with an impish smile. "When we've got our wits back enough to enjoy it."
She had a sudden vision of herself and Worf cuddled up together under a white bedsheet, with her tucked under his arm as he read a Shakespearean sonnet in his low, resonant voice. Did Klingons cuddle? She wouldn't mind finding out.
"What are you thinking, Deanna?" Worf asked softly, tracing the orner of her mouth; she must have smiled without knowing it.
"There are some wonderful romantic poets to whom I'd like to introduce you," she said, looking up at him through long black eyelashes. "And also … "
"My mother sent me the most hideous painted vase for my birthday," she said, keeping a straight face. "I've been waiting for an excuse to smash it."
And with that, she achieved the near impossible: she made Worf laugh.