An End (28 page)

“Ah.”

Sip.

President Jennings was on the link.
We will take this jihad to the stars—

Shivers.

“Paul?”

His hand shook as he placed the cup back down. Chattering staccato before complete contact. She put her hands over his, made them still

ness between

books, you have so much time! Are you sure you’re okay?”

He blinked, confused. More and more... More and more. He was losing moments. He was somewhere between now and worlds of impossibility.

He smiled, not convincing at all. “I’m okay. I never get used to seeing people with that book.”

She grinned. “At least you’re in good company. That couple over there was looking at Hesse’s Demian and Hayes’ Deus Ex earlier. In fact,” she leaned in, a conspirator, “he looks just like Hayes. Your protégé might be in my coffeehouse.”

Something that he didn’t want to acknowledge crawled up and down his spine for a while, then settled in at the base of his skull, tickling, raising gooseflesh. His grip tightened on the coffee cup.

“Yeah. Good company.”

She squeezed his hand. “Hey. You sure you’re okay?”

Nod. “Yeah. Just déjà vu.”

Eyebrows furrowed. “Again?”

The young couple walked out. The man looked at Paul for an instant, smiled. There was something in that glance

i contain multitudes

that broke his heart.

He reached into his front pocket and pulled out his marble. It rolled across the uneven countertop and she picked it up. The iridescent patina was scratched by half a century of travel and abuse. Four bright distortions winked in the afternoon light, scarred onto the surface from the pocket companionship of a brass Zippo with an engraved floral pattern that had long since been lost to the miles and decades of his life.

“I need a cigarette.”

“You know you shouldn’t—”

“Ever feel like you’ve lived too long? Like you’ve lived it all before?”

He hadn’t intended to hurt her with the statement, but he saw the wound develop in those eyes. At seventy-eight, they were both just over middle-aged, but still... Sometimes he felt like he wasn’t supposed to be there anymore.

“Not when I’m with you.” She withdrew the small glass bauble from her own pocket: a marble of her own, with its own scratches and a chip, given to her on that night when hopes and dreams became.

Snippets of conversation, and then laughter from behind. Maggie was laughing. He knew her name.

He knew her name, and he didn’t know how.

drifting and drifting, he resigned himself to the urge to look back. their eyes locked for the briefest of moments, and the tear-wet surface of her face revealed to him the secrets of futures now long long. they had abandoned everything they had known, and for that reason, they were damned.

the dialogue kept rising to the surface of his mind, and those prophetic words became universe upon universe. she reached to him, saw his unrest, and tenderly touched him.

you know we can’t go back

i know

it was for the best

i know

we will survive this

he let her words attempt to echo in the dead expanse. his silence screamed in the void, and they embraced, each an anchor in reality for the other.

you know i have to leave.

i know.

deconstruct

and something left me.
sometimes the only things left
are the
torn page and the
indentation of
bic micro metal scrawling your
life on a page
for a stranger.

we departed.
hell, i never really knew her
anyways.

so why do i feel this way?

when did the
exclamation points and
devotion
disappear
and the
introspect and
long
sophisticated yearnings
take their
place?

when did i
love you
become i
am sorry?

“I think too much.”

“No such thing.” She squeezed his hand. “Just one of those days.”

We will take this jihad to the stars, and make them suffer the consequences of creating this horrible—

“Today’s the day?”

“Yeah.” She turned the channel on the link. She’d had enough of Jennings for now.

“If I were younger, I’d go too.”

“I wouldn’t let you.”

One-cornered grin, metal-on-ceramic clink as spoon followed its habit path.

“I’d go.”

“You’ve fought enough wars, old man.”

“I need a smoke.”

“Yeah.” The one dimple appeared in her smile as she reached under the counter and placed something on the top. Rectangular box, red and white and black.

“Jesus—How did you—?”

“I have my ways. Happy birthday.”

Marlboro 100s. He smelled the pack.

“It’s fresh. Been kept in airless for—”

“Decades. Sweetheart... Thank you!”

She came from behind the counter and they embraced, forgetting for the moment the customers, the rain, the impending war and an end, of sorts, lost in that perfect moment, remembering a time of bohemian lovemaking and a world in hesitant watching, the uncertainty of young adulthood in the ghetto, rooftop stargazing and balcony summers, futonsnuggle and the way that her

lithe fingers remove the cigarette from the pack, and i lean in with gold zippo, floral pattern, butane scent fighting against the scent of

scratch, flame, click.

she inhales, pale green eyes locked on my own muddy nothing. her eyelids draw together. the tip of the cigarette glows, releases as she releases. lips still pursed, breath still inhaling until the slight pause. smoke escapes from those lips, those lips that i can still feel, still taste. they smile.

i light my own.

casters slide across hardwood floor as i roll myself and the ashtray toward her. she sits on the leopard futon, leaning forward to tap ashes into glass tray. i roll closer, knees on her knees, ashtray balanced on my leg. i tap my own ashes into that receptacle of our addiction.

inhale, exhale. the dimple revealed.

it is a pause in our lovemaking. tobacco burned, we crush filters against tar-blackened glass. i push the chair back to the desk, place the ashtray on the table. i walk back to her, sit beside her. lips merge, hands go hesitantly then purposefully to faces. we fall into each other, limbs intertwined, the taste of smoke on our lips, the shudder and release of desire matching smoothly the movement of two bodies in union.

it is not at all like kissing an

ashtray?”

“Sure, in the back. But don’t you want to save them for later?”

“No... Let’s smoke one now.” He wore a big goofy grin that she hadn’t seen in

“You’re dangerous.”

The door opened and a tall figure walked in, black cloak dry when it should have been wet, unkempt hair more kempt than the weather should have allowed. A single white curl stood out from his hairline. He walked to the counter.

“What can I get you?”

“Sorry, madam... I’m not here for refreshment. Have you seen this man?” The man held out his right hand, and a small holographic appeared.

Susan nodded. Paul was silent, eyes squinted to focus on the character before him.

who..? when—

“He was just in here... He’s the boy who proposed to his girlfriend.”

“Proposed?”

“I assume so... He gave her a silver ring.”

“Silver.”

Susan hesitated... The girl’s hands had been afflicted with the scourge. And this stranger—

“A silver ring. He proposed and they left. You know... Kids. In love. They left.”

“Did you see which way they walked?”

“Sorry. I wasn’t watching.”

“And you?”

Paul cleared his throat. “Sorry, friend. I was drinking my coffee.”

“Thank you for your time.” The man in black turned, walked back toward the door.

Paul stood, faced the man.

“Whistler?”

The stranger paused in mid-stride, head cocked to one side, about to turn—

Paul’s heart hitched in his chest.

Whistler walked out the door without looking back.

“Who was that?”

Paul shook his head.

“Nobody.” He sipped his coffee, held his wife’s hand. “Just a ghost.”

“Light ’em up.”

“What are they saying? What the fuck are they saying?”

“Who cares? Light ’em up. Trigger it. We’ll iron out the paperwork later.”

Hunter shook his head. “This isn’t right. Something isn’t right.”

Tallis glared through him, flipped his visor down. “Call in the fucking strike, Windham.”

“Sir, I can’t just—”

Tallis tore the comm from Hunter’s grasp, shoved him aside. He locked the device into the hardlink on his throat shield. “Tallis wing to orbital firing group. Bring the weapon online.”

copy, wing one.

“Sir, listen to them. They aren’t—”

“Hunter, don’t—”

“They aren’t humans.”

“The fuck are you—”