Vaporware (3 page)

I
managed to drop my iPod on the welcome mat when I reached for my keys. Calling
myself all sorts of names, I stooped to pick them up, even as Sarah heard the
clatter and yelled “It’s open.”

“Thanks,
honey.” A quick check told me the iPod was still working, so I tucked it away
and wandered inside, into what smelled like the lobby at an Italian restaurant.

“I’m
in the kitchen,” Sarah called out as I shut the door.

“I’m
not,” I answered, dropping the laptop bag in the atrium at the foot of the
steps.

“I’m
sorry I missed your call,” I added as I stepped into the kitchen. “We had a
brownout just as the phone rang.”

Sarah
turned from where she stood, coaxing steam from a pot of what looked to be
multicolored wheat pasta. “That’s all right. I just wanted to know when you’d
be home, and I’d rather hear it in person than get a phone call at eight
o’clock.”

I
leaned in and kissed her softly, mainly because I wanted to. She kissed me
back, then returned her attention to the noodles. “Is that dinner I see in
front of me?”

“Nope,”
she said with a smile. “This is for lunch for me for tomorrow. Pasta salad with
sun-dried tomatoes, since I know you hate anything with vegetables in it. We,”
and she turned and gestured with the wooden spoon for emphasis, “are going out
for dinner, because I have news.”

“No
hints?” I asked, wandering over to the refrigerator and taking out a can of
Diet Coke.

“No
hints,” she replied, “And no snacking. You’ll ruin dinner. And no caffeine.
You’ll never sleep tonight”

“Yes
ma'am.” I popped open the lid of the can and wandered through the kitchen
to the den. “How much longer is the pasta going to take? If I don’t spoil my
dinner, I may resort to cannibalism.” Saying that, I threw myself down on the
couch—black leather, the only piece of furniture I'd contributed to the
domestic arrangement—and took the master remote from its place of honor on the
coffee table. The television flared to life, even as the clanging of pots in
the kitchen told me that it wasn’t actually going to be much longer. “Leon says
hi, by the way.”

“How’s
he doing? We should invite him over some time. And where’s the colander?”
Sarah’s voice was muffled, due in large part to the fact that her head was
tucked into one of the kitchen cabinets. “I can’t find it anywhere.”

“He’s
doing fine, and it’s in the cabinet next to the dishwasher, inside the door,” I
replied, and scrolled through the DVR. “My God, it’s all Say Yes To The Dress.
What happened to my Walking Dead episodes?”

“Overwritten,
sweetheart,” replied Sarah in a tone that indicated that she didn’t regret this
in the slightest. “There was a marathon, and you set it to record all episodes
of Say Yes for me like a good and considerate boyfriend would, and the rest is
history. Besides, Netflix or something, right?” There was more clanging, then
the sound of a cabinet slamming and something metallic landing in the sink. As
if on cue, the stove timer went off, bleeping with self-importance as I cringed
at the wretched sound.

“Do
you need a hand in there,” I asked half-heartedly as I turned the television
off. “Or would I be in the way?”

“Just
finish your soda and think about where you want to take me for dinner,” came
the response, and then the slosh of water being spilled out of a pot. “You’ve
got ten minutes to come up with something dazzling.”

I
took a long swig out of the can and swallowed a small burp as I set the thing
down on a coaster. “If I’ve got ten minutes, I’ve got time to do research. I’ll
be right back down with the golden ticket.”

“As
long as it’s not the Golden Corral,” Sarah’s voice called after me as I bounded
out of the den and upstairs to my office. One of the attractions of the house
had been the multiple bedrooms on the second floor, two of which had been
converted into offices. Sarah’s was closer to the master bedroom, and with good
reason; it was an actual office with an actual desk, filing cabinet, and so
forth.

Mine,
on the other hand, was something different.

I
could hear the hum from my jacked-up Alienware gaming rig even before I opened
the door, the blue light from the neon in the case lighting up the room as I
entered. One wall was taken up with books, the other with games, and the floor
held the papers that had yet to meander their way into the overloaded filing
cabinet against the back wall. I'd hung up small but potent Altec Lansing
speakers in each of the ceiling corners, while the desk and the desktop system
dominated the space. No skimping on the chair, either—I'd gotten an ergonomic
Herman Miller chair when one of the local middleware firms had gone
belly-up.

“How’s
it going up there?” Sarah called as I opened up a web browser. “Just fine,” I
answered. “Looking now.”

My
fingers worked feverishly on the keyboard. Just a quick email check, I told
myself. Then I can find a restaurant.

I
hopped to Horseshoe’s remote mail server and logged in. There were twenty
emails queued up, just in the few minutes since I'd left work. Some were spam,
two were forwarded links to semi-humorous YouTube videos, and the rest were
work-related from folks in the office who’d stayed even later than I had.

One
was from Leon. It said “Hah! When was the last time you went home first?” He'd
attached a gleefully obscene image to go with the note. I deleted it and moved
on. There were other emails that were a little more pressing.

Where’s
the design for the multiplayer matchmaking? I sent the link to where the docs
were sitting Horseshoe’s internal server.

QA’s
saying that nobody’s getting past the chokepoint on mission 4. I sketched out
the alternate routes, then suggested moving a couple of the enemy units thirty
meters back so that the initial combat wasn’t quite as intense.

Some
of the hand-to-hand combat combinations weren’t flowing properly? That was a
case of re-blending the animations, or maybe dropping certain combos that
didn’t work together, and I promised all fifteen people cc'ed on the email that
I'd get with everyone tomorrow on it.

Sightlines
on the first multiplayer map were too long? Put some crates in as placeholders
and—

“Ahem.”

I
jumped in my seat as Sarah leaned in and cleared her throat, not particularly
quietly, less than an inch from my left ear. “Nice research.”

I
swiveled the chair around, hoping the blue light from the case would hide the
red flush of embarrassment in my cheeks. No luck; I could see in the reflection
in her glasses that I just looked purple instead. “I was waiting for the search
results to load, and—”

“And
you decided to check work email, just in case the building caught on fire in the
half an hour since you left it. Oh, and you accidentally closed the page with
the restaurant listings on it, too.” She placed her hands on the chair and spun
it back around so that I was facing the monitor. “Fortunately, I figured on
something like this, so I already had a place picked out. Shut the computer
down, put on a nicer shirt, and let’s go. Oh, and you’re driving.”

“Yes
ma’am,” I said, and did as I was told.

                                                 *  
*   *

“And
what will the lady be having?” asked the waiter, who looked more like a barista
with delusions of grandeur than the sort of waitstaff that The Magnolia usually
employed. He hovered attentively over Sarah’s shoulder, pad in hand and pen
poised while I thought about glaring at him.

“The
lady,” Sarah said, “will be having the veal ossa bucco, and we’ll be having a
bottle of the Gaja Barbaresco.” She set her menu down. “The 2001, if you
please.”

“Of
course,” the man said, raising his eyes fractionally. “And the gentleman?”

I
scanned the menu, rejecting items sequentially as I came to them. 
“Chicken marsala,” I finally croaked out, more out of desperation and a deep
desire not to get red sauce on my shirt than anything else.

The
waiter frowned, and I realized too late I’d picked a dish that wouldn’t
compliment the Barbaresco. The hell with it, I thought. I was this close to
ordering a Diet Coke anyway.

“Will
that be all?” the waiter added, turning back to Sarah. “We have some lovely
antipasti, a superb selection of soups—”

“That
will be all, thank you,” she said, and raised her eyebrows to dare him to argue
the point.

“Of
course.” The man backed away, bowing from the neck. “Your wine will be out
shortly.”

I
watched him go. “Our wine will be out? What, is it tired of living the lie?”

Sarah
shushed me. “Be nice. The wine will be.”

“I
noticed.” I tapped the wine list. “That’s beyond nice. That’s positively
saintly.”

“That’s
because we have something to celebrate.” Sarah smiled, and I immediately forgot
about the waiter, the menu, and the price of the wine. Her smiles had that
effect on me, particularly when she turned the full force of her attention my
way.

I
smiled back and straightened up in my chair a little. “So, are you going to
tell me? Or do I have to guess?”

“When
the wine gets here,” Sarah chided. “It’s the sort of thing you want to toast.”

I
nodded, then started ticking off guesses on my fingers anyway. “Let’s see.
You’re drinking wine, so you’re not pregnant. You let me drive, which means you
want to have more than one glass, so it’s really good news. I don’t see a
ring—-”

“That’s
enough out of you,” she said firmly. “Besides, the wine is coming.”

And
it was, and the waiter, who re-introduced himself as Andy, expertly displayed
the bottle before cutting away the foil and pulling the cork.

“Sir?”
Andy was waving a wineglass with a splash of red in the bottom under my nose. I
fought the urge to throw myself backwards out of my chair and instead suggested
that the lady was probably a better judge of such things. Andy nodded and
passed the glass to Sarah. She glowered at me for an instant, then sipped, said
“Excellent,” and held out her wineglass for more.

“As
you wish.” Andy filled her glass, then looked to me with an expression that
suggested I'd be better off drinking something with a screw cap, or maybe from
a trough. I just nodded at him, and after a moment's hesitation he filled the
second glass before leaving post-haste.

“So
what is the big surprise,” I asked, and raised my glass. “We have the wine, we
don’t have Andy—what more could I ask for?”

Sarah
smothered a laugh, and raised her glass to mine. The two touched, rim to rim,
the sound of crystal on crystal so faint only the two of us could hear it.
“Well,” she started, “for one thing, you are now looking at the newest senior
account manager at Barnes, Derrick.”

“That’s
great! That’s fantastic!” I nearly went over the table to hug her, and I could feel
how much of my face a grin was suddenly covering. “Honey, that’s wonderful. I
am so proud of you.”

“Thank
you,” she said, and she was smiling, her glass still held up. “But there’s
more.”

“More?”
I paused with the wine hovering close to my lip. “What else could there be?”

She
nodded demurely, smiling. “How about an office instead of a cube, and a raise,
and all sorts of other compensation-type goodies that we can talk about later?”
She took another sip of her wine before setting the glass down on the table.
“Wow, I haven’t seen you smile like that in ages. I’m really glad you got home
on time tonight so we could share this.”

“Me,
too.” I felt a warm glow suffusing my face and spreading down through my belly.
The wine, I thought, or maybe just Sarah. She could do that to me even on days
without earth-shattering good news. And on a day like today….

She
took a sip of wine, then topped off her glass. “Which sort of brings me to the
next topic, and it’s not something you have to answer right now. I just want
you to think about it.”

“Is
that the marriage conversation?” I made a show of sliding my chair back and
pretending to bolt. “Should I start running, or—”

“You
are impossible,” Sarah said, but without heat or anger. She mock-glared at me,
but she was trying to hide a smile, which killed the effect. “And don’t you
dare look relieved, mister.”

I
just pulled my chair back to the table, head down in contrition, as Andy set a
basket of bread down on the table. “Anything I say now will just get me in
trouble, so I’m just going to sit here quietly and gaze at you in adoration.” I
took a sip of wine. “And drink. But mostly gaze.”

“That’s
a wise decision.” Sarah’s lips crinkled into a smile. “That makes two you’ve
made tonight.”

“Who’s
counting?”

She
smiled for real now. “Me.”

“Touché.”

“Later,”
and the smile became a promise. “But as I was saying before we were attacked by
delicious carbs—do you want some bread, honey?”

I
unwrapped the napkin to reveal a steaming loaf of what looked to be unsliced
semolina bread underneath. Braving the oven-born heat, I tore off a hunk and
placed it on Sarah’s bread plate. “You first, my dear.”