by Tricia Reeks
“Your latte,” the barista places the drink on the table in front of me. “Huh? Oh, right,” I say. “Thanks.” The barista lingers, a too-wide smile stretching her mouth. I realize she’s waiting for my usual response. “Thanks a latte,” I summon a wan grin. The barista giggles and practically floats back to the cash register where a customer taps his shoe, frowning at her. Mary heard, she’s embarrassed for me. John is still trying to conjure something meaningful to say. But as usual, cliché wins out.
“You look good,” John says.
“Thanks. So do you,” Mary says. “I like your beard.”
“What?” John stops scratching his neck.
“Your beard,” Mary repeats.
He grew it accidentally, without any forethought. Without Mary around, he forgot the need to look good.
“Makes you look more distinctive. Doing it for a gig or something?”
“Yeah. For a gig. Advertising, you know,” John has no idea what he’s saying.
But all he can think is “She likes it,” and he doubts he’ll shave anytime soon.
“When is your next gig?” Mary asks.
“Next week. Have a few lined up, actually,” John lies.
His auditions, lately, have been with rum.
“That’s great. How much—” Mary breaks off.
She doesn’t want him to think she’s rubbing it in his face, his cash trickle. She believed it was a sore point with him, that after their meager years together she’d be making a lawyer’s salary and he a dreamer’s one.
Mary recovers, “—will you play?” but not smoothly.
“The usual three everyone likes. Then some covers probably,” John reaches for his coffee.
“You’ve always been hard on yourself,” Mary says.
Her eyes grow wide and John, stunned, looks up at her. She hadn’t meant to say anything real.
“I have?” John asks.
“Since our first date. Remember? You blamed yourself for the rain.”
A downpour that drowned John’s confidence as well as his carefully crafted picnic. Their date relocated to his apartment, which became her apartment the second her foot crossed the threshold. Wherever she went, the place belonged to her and her alone once she looked around. She took her time with it, too, her claiming. For large areas she turned clockwise, absorbing her environment until she was full. Then she sighed, her only comment that she now owned what she saw. Considering the bare apartment John called “home,” her claiming only lasted the second her foot needed to walk inside. Her claiming of him lasted all that night, though. His hair, messy. His eyes, green flecked with yellow. His smile, adorable. His voice, melodic. His gait, loose. His stripping, clumsy. His chest, oddly toned. His legs, careful. His breath, warm. She sighed into his mouth.
It scared John, that he could fall in love that fast. The rain wanted to come inside, it dripped from the kitchen ceiling into the only pot John owned. Their food was soggy, and he only had one candle to create anything resembling a “mood.” But she laughed at his jokes, and told him he was a better cook than she. That night, he noticed hands for the first time in his life. She commanded him to stop and carefully removed her necklace—sapphire and silver—before placing it on his nightstand, next to the circular watermark imprinted by his hatred of coasters and everything else that reminded him of his father. Her motions were gentle yet firm, a lioness lifting a cub by the neck. Hands that could lift and put him in a better place.
And from the moment the rain started until they woke up entangled in each other, John never stopped apologizing.
“I wanted it to be special,” John says.
“It was special,” Mary says.
I blink, sip my lukewarm latte. I don’t know why I’m so focused on these two. Plenty of strangers are thinking nearby. Every life is special, in some way. Well. Interesting. In some way. An off-duty cop sits at the table in front of me, obsessing over the details of an unsolved murder. Should be plenty fascinating. Adjust to him. What’s his name?
“—Mark enjoyed it, so that’s one person. Even if he’s only eight years old.” John says.
“I saw him recently. You know, Christmas,” Mary says.
The longest Christmas Mary drank through, The Fight fresh in her mind. Her extended family exemplified being fruitful and multiplying. Children littered her grandparents’ house. Screaming, laughing, jumping, running, giggling, playing, crying, living.
“He’s grown a foot,” Mary says.
“Impossible. It’s only been, what, a year?” John asks.
To be precise, last Christmas. The one before The Fight. One of the children, Suzy probably, overheard Mary’s family gossiping about John and gleaned that he sang. A wave of children crashed on John, demanding entertainment. John strummed carols and a couple of his own songs on Christmas Eve to his first adoring audience.
“Kids. They grow like weeds,” Mary says.
“Too bad you can’t just yank them out,” John grins.
The air vanishes. A void cracks open between John and Mary and expands until every thought in the coffee shop chokes and falls still. A cold seeps in through the fractures. Without moving, John and Mary recede from each other. Two stars sit on opposite ends of space, one blue, one yellow, throwing out light. Wanting to touch. A universe between them.
The blue star sends a message.
“You know, out of the ground. I’m sorry, Mary.”
By the time it reaches the yellow star, millions of years have passed. Light years too late.
“It’s okay.”
The yellow star fades, but the blue one shines brighter. Shines desperate.
“No, it isn’t. I’ve been an ass.”
A flicker. She gives him one more chance.
“Why did you ask me here?”
This is it, John.
“Because I—“
You’re almost there, John. Please. It’s just two more words. Prove me wrong, John. I’m tired of being cynical. I’m tired of sitting in coffee shops, waiting. You’ve said the first word, you only have two more. Just say them, John, and she’ll take you back. Even now it isn’t too late, anyone can tell it isn’t too late, you don’t have to be a mind reader to see it. Two words, John. He spots his coffee cup and in his panicked eyes it becomes an escape. Don’t, John. Please. Don’t.
“—love this coffee shop,” John says.
“I’m sorry?” Mary deadpans.
“Yep. Thought you might like it. I love it,” John puts the cup to his lips and pretends to sip it but it’s empty and he knows it.
“It’s disappointing,” Mary says, her iced coffee melted and untouched.
“Sorry you think that,” John says. “I love this place.”
“I should be going,” Mary says.
“It was nice catching up,” John says.
“Bye, John,” Mary says.
“See you later,” John says.
“I doubt it.”
The tiny bell rings as Mary leaves. I turn around, not caring that John sees my tears.
“Asshole. It was three words,” I say.
“No,” John stands up. “Three words would never be enough.”
The tiny bell rings as John leaves.
“Are you okay?” The barista heard me, observed my tears. She jumps on the opportunity, while I’m vulnerable. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.
In a second I know her every crevasse. Know exactly what to say to make her sleep with me. I’ve done it to countless women. I can also make her fall in love with me. I’ve only done that once. It wouldn’t take half an hour. I could be her perfect husband; know her desires and emotions and give her everything she’d want.
She can’t do that for me.
“No,” I say.
So Fast We’re Slow
Jody Sollazzo
A protestor yelled out that the FAMs were whores and that the infants would get soft-time-travel brains. Maggie decided to take the Future Airship Mothers to the platform where
only travelers and high-paying enthusiasts were allowed. She drew on her days of lecturing as a teacher to grab back her audience.
“Most people would find their first view of an airship intimidating even without putting their beloved infant on it for almost two years,” she said. “But remember it will only be five days to them, and they will have the best of care. I can also assure you that babies do not get soft-brains. In fact, this is the third trip for me and my baby. She was born six years ago, but is only a year old with our travels and is so smart. Don’t let the protestors’ lies scare you out of your opportunity.”
The new ship was a massive Zeppelin-shaped silver double-decker with intricate golden embossing around its working parts. From its balloon body, the sea-green engines hung like cut gems in cages of gold. Steam poured out of the engines as it idled.
“Well played,” a man said after the FAMs left the dock and Maggie stood alone.
“Excuse me?” she said, eyebrow raising.
He wore an electric-blue suit and a monocle. He stood next to Maggie looking over the railing toward the tethered ship and did not bother to look up. Some children in pastel outfits ran past them and giggled after stomping a rainbow-painted android toy.
The man’s long dark dreadlocks hung from his top hat like thick cords against his tanned white skin. The monocle he wore had an intricate lens and a thick black leather strap decorated tastefully to match his silver ear chains. Maggie assumed the monocle was to support some kind of gadget.
“I heard you with those girls. They’re the ones who send their babies to themselves in the future because they can’t be bothered now. Those idiot protestors give them doubts, and you don’t want to be out of a job, yeah?”
Maggie folded her arms under her breasts, stretching her light green peasant-blouse tight. “Those women care greatly about their children, as do I.”
“Right. Your six-year-old that is a one-year-old and brilliant due to the magic of time travel. The math doesn’t add up. Where is she, then?” he asked.
He stepped closer to her, and she realized he was younger than she thought. He was mocking her, but he smiled.
“Aren’t you sharp?” She allowed herself to smile back.
“That’s not what my tutor used to say,” he said and raised a soft arched brow. “But, I’m right?”
“You’re right. The math doesn’t work, and I have no baby. I meant I care about their babies enough to fight lies with lies.”
“Do they pay you to lie as a ship worker, or does it just come naturally, Emmy Sanger?” he said, reading the name she had on her obtrusive wet-nurse breast pin. The name she would have given him, or anyone, if asked.
“They only pay me to feed the babies, Mister . . . ?”
“I suppose you can call me Mr. Sharp,” he said.
“I’ve been fighting lies with lies as an added service for a while, Mr. Sharp. You don’t approve? I can give you statistics on how the lives of the babies and mothers improve.”
“How would I know they weren’t lies?” he said and grinned. “So you plan on traveling with babes into the future forever?”
She laughed. “I’m sure you know, we aren’t really time traveling. The ship moves faster than light. So time slows down on the inside.”
“Don’t be so sure of what I know,” he said. “My name isn’t really Sharp. The Zeppelin is slow because it’s so fast? I didn’t make my money in quantum physics.”
Maggie laughed again. That made twice in six years—more than she expected. He had some genuine humility. A rare trait on the ship’s upper deck. A live band started loud music for the ship’s bon voyage as soon-to-be-passengers danced.
“What did you make your money in?” she asked.
“Manipulation, same as you. Only I build things,” he said.
He held out a golden mechanical orb in his palm. Pieces in the back of it, shaped like tiny wings, began to flutter. It lifted off his hand and flew before her face. She held out her palm, and it landed with a gentle tickle. It was a little golden owl with gears for eyes. Not a tiny scrap of metal on it looked aesthetically misplaced in its intricate design. Some people slowed to look. Maggie was glad no one stopped.
“It’s beautiful,” Maggie said.
She felt her chest tighten. She was always so impressed by mechanics as her training had been mostly theoretical. For the first time she felt that she was possibly in the future.
“If you’re looking for a way into the future, don’t waste your money on the ship,” she said, “All that truly happens is the world moves on without you.”
“Maybe I want to be still while all my troubles die,” he said.
He held out a palm, and his toy owl flew back to him while his monocle lens rotated.
So, he was a talented inventor who was hoping the ship was his way out of a situation. He probably thought he could get away with anything, once on it, since he wasn’t even giving his real name. Men like him were the reason they had security on the ship.
The dock’s sound system announced boarding was to begin. “Well, good luck to you,” she said as she readied herself to embark.
“Luck would be nice in my situation,” he said.
He touched the brim of his hat and left her. She felt pinpricks in her chest begin to rise. Hopefully he was just an enthusiast who paid to see the ship up close, and she’d never see him again. Five days would go by for Maggie on the ship, and when she returned he’d be two years gone, and likely with a new fancy.
***
The club was called The Stopped Watch, which wasn’t an accurate pun. Maggie only came because she’d received some free drink tickets as a staff prize. She looked around at women in heavy pastel make-up and faux East-Indian garb. They contrasted greatly to her own swept up chestnut hair, simple white billowing dress, and black leather corset.
Maggie sat next to a shouting, gin-stinking couple. The slim bustle-dress-frosted-lipstick girl held out her wrist and showed the older man her Cog-Am scar around which she’d had tattooed tiny flowers.
“I had no idea what it was about,” the girl said. “Then I found a clue at my house, which led to another and another. It turned out it was a game me and my friends created for ourselves. The prize was finding the final clue, which was a recorder of us saying we were going to create the game! Good fun! But, it is a bit frightful. I really do have no memory of creating it, and I can’t ever. Who knows what other things I’ve done!”
Maggie turned abruptly away from the couple, her mouth agape. The lives of the rich were so different. She was far from anti-Cog-Am, but she didn’t believe they should be used for games. That was almost as bad as forcing someone to erase their memories against their will.
She realized that the blue-suited man, the so-called Mr. Sharp, was next to her. She wondered how he could see anything in the dark club through the tinted blue glasses he wore.
“So, what’d you do it for?” he asked as he leaned into her.
“What?” she said.
“That lil’ social-itch bitch had her memory erased for fun. What did you want to forget? Your Cog-Am? Long sleeves and cuffs give it away, pet.”
He fingered her black leather cuff and pulled on its decorative chain. The smell of fermented honey was on his breath.
“I forget,” she said dryly.
“Right, I didn’t forget you’re a liar,” he said right in her ear.
“You can stop calling me a liar anytime.” She was happy to yell it over the music.
“Am I brassing you off? You can just drink to forget me. No need for an expensive procedure. I’m surprised they don’t have little Cog-Am booths on this Zeppelin nightmare of dimwits.”
She planned to say she had tried to warn him about the airship, and to tell him plenty of intelligent people had Cog-Ams, and that they weren’t just used to forget. But, Mr. Sharp had taken his glasses off. She had only seen one of his eyes earlier when he had the monocle on. Seeing them both was quite different. They were blue and rim
med with black liner, and they were set on her. His whole face together was like looking at something far too bright for this dark place. The music stopped briefly, and Maggie spoke in the dead space.
“Just—shut up!” she said.
“What will you do if I don’t? Suckle me ’til I’m quiet? Do me a favor then, don’t wait a half-hour. Do it now, so I get the booze,” he said.
Maggie jumped off of her bar stool and went to his. She kissed him on the mouth fully, mashing her burgundy lips into his pale pink ones until he opened them. She could pretend she did it because he understood about lactation and drinking. But, it really was his eyes. Mr. Sharp grabbed her arms and searched her face, his brow crinkling over his aquiline nose. Then he kissed her back with such fever it was as if he had genuine passion for her. But, Maggie knew that wasn’t true. They were just strangers on a ship about to leave a bar together for a long grope on their way to a room.
***
They swung each other down the halls of halo-gas-lamps. It was nearly a shoving war as their lips and bodies rubbed against each other. She would try to push him back—enough to get her garments aside, enough to get the main event started—but then he would start pushing and pulling her to where he wanted to go.
She gasped as he lifted her up so easily. She wasn’t as petite as she once was but she supposed she was still a miniature hourglass woman.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “no open windows or doors here, so I can’t throw you off, as much as I might want.”
“You can’t shock me,” she said in his arms.
“Don’t speak too soon. My lactating liar.”
They kissed as he carried her into his suite, which was a far cry from the staff bunks. It was the room of a traveler who had two years of money to waste in five days.
“You’re not getting any,” she said to him. She kicked off her shoes, breathing heavily as his lips found her neck.
“It would seem you’re lying again,” he said.