“You don’t want to stay for the six fifteen?” Arch looked at his pocket watch. “It’s due in less than five minutes.” “I’ve figured out my problem,” Quincy said, matter-of-factly. “To stay any longer would be a waste of time.” “But the poetry.” He waved his hand over the spectacle below. “Isn’t that what you love?” “I love the perfection, Arch, not the poetry.” As he gathered his things, Quincy heard him mutter that perfection and poetry were often the same thing.
