it’s finally hitting me at a gut level: I’m talking to a dead person. If I could hold your hand, your fingers would be cold and stiff.”
Mira looked away, toward the ceiling. She felt ashamed. Ashamed of the dead body that housed her.
“Is it bad?” he whispered, as if he were asking something obscene.
Mira didn’t want to answer, but she also didn’t want togo back to being dead. “It’s hard. It’s hard to have no control over anything, not when I can be awake, or whom I talk to. And to be honest, it’s scary. When you end this date, I’m going to be gone—no thoughts, no dreaming, just nothingness. It terrifies me. I dread those few seconds before the date ends.”
Lycan’s eyes had filled with tears; he looked genuinely distraught at her plight, so Mira changed the subject, asking about Lycan’s family. He had a father and a sister, had never been married.
When Lycan asked about her, she avoided any mention of Jeannette. She told him she’d been an engineer in the military, that she loved Purple Fifth’s music and old 2-D Woody Allen movies. She’d been a retro girl, loving all things old and out of fashion, dressed in baseball caps and leg warmers, decorated her apartment with covers of old print magazines. She told Lycan her father died when she was young, but her mother was still alive. Then she remembered that her mother must be long dead as well.
“What if we fell in love, and you agreed to marry me?” Lycan said when she finished. “Would people sense you were too beautiful for me, and guess that I’d met you at a bridesicle place? We’d have to come up with a convincing story about how we met.”
“Bridesicle?”
Lycan shrugged. “That’s what people call this kind of place.”
Then even if someone revived her, she would be a pariah. People would want nothing to do with her.
“I’m afraid it’s time for me to say good-bye. Maybe we can talk again?” Lycan said.
Mira didn’t want to die again, didn’t want to be throwninto that abyss. She had so much to think about, to remember. “I’d like that,” was all she said, resisting the urge to scream, to beg this man not to kill her. If she did that, he’d never come back. As he reached over to turn her off, Mira used her last few seconds to try to reach for a comforting memory, something involving Jeannette.
She remembered last Christmas Eve, just her and Jeannette curled up on the couch, watching an old romantic comedy starring Carly Coates and a willowy blond woman whose name Mira couldn’t remember.
9
Rob
The air was filled with the rumble of conversation, spiked with drunken laughter, set over music drifting out of a dozen doorways. The narrow streets were tight with people Rob’s age, the air sweet with the scent of popcorn and pastries and buttered lobster sticks, sold by shiny drones from mobile stands. How many nights had Rob spent down here with Lorelei? He had such positive associations with this part of High Town, yet tonight was turning out to be one of the most demoralizing of his life. He’d never really
needed
a job before; playing the lute had earned him what he needed, because he’d always needed very little.
Rob worked his way through the crowd of High Town Friday-nighters. The night style was heavy on checks at the moment—black-and-white checks, red-and-yellow checks. The tips on spiked boots were getting longer and sharper, and bald was getting popular, eyebrows as well as heads, though many were still sporting the giant-ball-of-hair look.
Pelicula was on the corner, bursting out from between two nondescript redbrick buildings like confetti. Rob had no reason to believe he had a better chance of landing a job there than at the last seven places he’d tried, although he used to hang out at Pelicula more than most of the others. Maybe he should have started at a superstore, or one of the factories out by his dad’s house, but the crappiest job in High Town paid better than a decent one in the
Mira looked away, toward the ceiling. She felt ashamed. Ashamed of the dead body that housed her.
“Is it bad?” he whispered, as if he were asking something obscene.
Mira didn’t want to answer, but she also didn’t want togo back to being dead. “It’s hard. It’s hard to have no control over anything, not when I can be awake, or whom I talk to. And to be honest, it’s scary. When you end this date, I’m going to be gone—no thoughts, no dreaming, just nothingness. It terrifies me. I dread those few seconds before the date ends.”
Lycan’s eyes had filled with tears; he looked genuinely distraught at her plight, so Mira changed the subject, asking about Lycan’s family. He had a father and a sister, had never been married.
When Lycan asked about her, she avoided any mention of Jeannette. She told him she’d been an engineer in the military, that she loved Purple Fifth’s music and old 2-D Woody Allen movies. She’d been a retro girl, loving all things old and out of fashion, dressed in baseball caps and leg warmers, decorated her apartment with covers of old print magazines. She told Lycan her father died when she was young, but her mother was still alive. Then she remembered that her mother must be long dead as well.
“What if we fell in love, and you agreed to marry me?” Lycan said when she finished. “Would people sense you were too beautiful for me, and guess that I’d met you at a bridesicle place? We’d have to come up with a convincing story about how we met.”
“Bridesicle?”
Lycan shrugged. “That’s what people call this kind of place.”
Then even if someone revived her, she would be a pariah. People would want nothing to do with her.
“I’m afraid it’s time for me to say good-bye. Maybe we can talk again?” Lycan said.
Mira didn’t want to die again, didn’t want to be throwninto that abyss. She had so much to think about, to remember. “I’d like that,” was all she said, resisting the urge to scream, to beg this man not to kill her. If she did that, he’d never come back. As he reached over to turn her off, Mira used her last few seconds to try to reach for a comforting memory, something involving Jeannette.
She remembered last Christmas Eve, just her and Jeannette curled up on the couch, watching an old romantic comedy starring Carly Coates and a willowy blond woman whose name Mira couldn’t remember.
9
Rob
The air was filled with the rumble of conversation, spiked with drunken laughter, set over music drifting out of a dozen doorways. The narrow streets were tight with people Rob’s age, the air sweet with the scent of popcorn and pastries and buttered lobster sticks, sold by shiny drones from mobile stands. How many nights had Rob spent down here with Lorelei? He had such positive associations with this part of High Town, yet tonight was turning out to be one of the most demoralizing of his life. He’d never really
needed
a job before; playing the lute had earned him what he needed, because he’d always needed very little.
Rob worked his way through the crowd of High Town Friday-nighters. The night style was heavy on checks at the moment—black-and-white checks, red-and-yellow checks. The tips on spiked boots were getting longer and sharper, and bald was getting popular, eyebrows as well as heads, though many were still sporting the giant-ball-of-hair look.
Pelicula was on the corner, bursting out from between two nondescript redbrick buildings like confetti. Rob had no reason to believe he had a better chance of landing a job there than at the last seven places he’d tried, although he used to hang out at Pelicula more than most of the others. Maybe he should have started at a superstore, or one of the factories out by his dad’s house, but the crappiest job in High Town paid better than a decent one in the
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