Sunday, June 12, 2022 — Art by Darius Puia BakaArts
Context behind this story dates back to my first published short story, which began a series that I last left off with here… All stories stand alone, but if you want to journey through the confusion of futuristic chaos, you must begin, again.
Like him, she’d run the faucet water and come out of the bathroom with two scaling dry hands. The door would shut from behind her, and with that mischievous walk back to my bed, he, too, would say we’re only here for moments such as this.
It’s been a long time since it’s been a while—there are no days or nights. We’re fortunate to have the rising scent of fossil fuels leaking through our bedroom air vents every 14 hours. Eggs don’t taste like the uncaged ones down there, but the bacon has another layer of salt and chew. Every Tuesday, we gather for viewing in hopes of the earth’s greenery.
I’m starting to forget where time oughta be.
Anyways, I don’t know who she is. But she needed me. Although I was spoken for, I nurtured the aura between us. It was a Tuesday viewing when we hinged. Earth wasn’t easy to see, nor were our binary cohorts through the observatory deck.
“Is there something about my bathroom?” I ask her.
“It’s the only cadet cabin with a bidet,” she responds.
“So, it’s your stomach?”
“Okay, don’t get short with me.”
“Don’t get sensitive.”
“Are we arguing?” I ask.
“What else could be better to do today?”
“Wait a day until Tuesday?”
She holds up her index and middle finger, responding, “But that’s in two days.”
“The worst lies come in twos,” I whisper.
“It’s what my dad used to warn me.”
“He told you once, right?” She asks.