Onward!

“Onward! Onward, I say. “To the heights!” Donat proclaimed.

“What heights?” Hugo questioned innocently.

Donat was taken aback. “Why,” he waved his hand broadly, “the heights, the heights of—of--.”

“Folly?” Hugo suggested.

Donat expelled his breath like a deflating balloon. He appeared unready to take another.

For a long, painful moment he regarded Hugo from under dark, furrowed brows, with utmost contempt. Such density, he thought, was the curse, always the curse of leadership.

“Well, that’s the only heights I’ve heard of,” Hugo defended.

“The point is,” Donat said with measured words, “that we must forever persevere, never quit, always apply ourselves to the task.”

He nodded after each phrase for emphasis, then sat back, pleased with his unequivocal clarity, and awaiting some sign that Hugo had at last understood.

No sign came. Hugo simply looked back at Donat. Donat regarded Hugo in a way that conveyed no communication one way or another.

Evening's shadows appeared, then lengthened across the Turkish rug's intricate red, yellow, and green filagrees. A clock ticked in the next room.

“Could we order pizza?” Hugo blinked at last.

“Let’s do it,” Donat rose, “I’m starved.”