Short Story: The Waltz

December 29, 2015January 6, 2018 ~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

It began with a waltz. Two bodies entwined over the winds that punctuated light strings with their one-and rhythm. The harmony swelled to a crescendo over the curl of a silken dress and the silent shuffle of shoes on polished marble. The one-and gathered speed, burst into sixteenth notes guided the silken curl in a graceful bob and weave along the polished, marble floor. The swell sank only to gather more brass, bass, and rhythm that rose and fell with the movements of the bodies. Then, she spun; a tender hand on her dress while a lone pair of fingers pivoted her again along his hand. They rejoined to take the room in grand, wide undulations that circled them around the countless other ball-goers.

The motions were captivating, breath-taking, the audience enthralled. They paid no mind to their champagne, their partners, or the gradual inclusion of the rest of the orchestra. They were hypnotized, literally. As the dance carried on, the room swayed with their movements, as if the very beat of the Waltz had seized the minds from their bodies.

In a pivot, she spun away, did not return. He continued without her, his movements as fluid as ever. The people could never have noticed. Nor could they have heard the chirp of the microscopic implant in her ear as it connected the bone-conduction two-way radio to her handler outside.

His voice resonated in her head, vibrated the bones in her ear, “You’ve got two minutes before the waltz is over.”

She twirled to the edge of the crowd. Then, once out of sight, broke form to push through a solid, wooden door nearly hidden in the walnut walls. She slipped into a harsh, florescent light that bounded along a narrow, concrete corridor. The drab gray only emboldened the luxury she’d left behind.

In a moment, she was at the corridor’s end, a door barred with a magnetic, key card lock. A hand pressed the door. Her eyes closed. The square security room suddenly appeared behind her lids, situated beyond in cool infrared. A half-dozen monitors glowed green at the back of the room, split into two banks between two, red signatures. By the gentle sway of their red-hot, thermals, the plan had worked; security had been mesmerized too.

The mass-hypnosis was the furthest thing from her thoughts. She was secure in her accomplice’s ability to maintain the ruse, he’d done it before, though he didn’t know it. She was lucky to remember– or perhaps not, depending on one’s perspective.

“One forty-five,” the transmitter chirped.

Her hand went to the magnetic key-card reader in the door jamb. A spark of electricity arced from her flattened palm with a thought. The reader’s light from red to green, and the door slid open with a hiss.

She was in. It didn’t need to be said. The high-resolution remote-viewers back at HQ had already hard-wired themselves into the computer system weeks before. Her handler could see everything as if he were there now. In a breath, she crossed the room to a safe, her heart steady, her nerves steel.

“There’s an ocular scanner on the safe with neural-imprint software,” the voice reported. “You need to make direct eye contact with one of the guards and let your optic-augs record his imprint and reform your iris. You’ve got one minute left.” She stepped for the first guard, a hand at the back of his chair. The voice sounded again, “And be alert, once he breaks eye-contact with the screen, he’s live again.”

She huffed, her jaw tight. The otherwise warm confidence of her steel-blue eyes frosted over. In a single action, she spun the chair around, broke the guard’s eye-contact with the screen. He shook off a confused lethargy, her hand already at his throat. Her teeth grit, her grip tightened. The Electro-augs in her palm surged just enough electricity to keep him still. His eyes went wide, locked on hers. In a flitted survey of his iris, her optical augments recorded his neural imprint on the microscopic hard-drive embedded in her neck. Terrabytes coursed along the minute, fiber-optic line that twisted and turned within her head. In a moment that saw his eyes about to pop, her left iris reformed to match his.

A sideways flick of her wrist snapped his neck. She was at the safe before he went limp, stood before its scanner.

“Good. Once you have the weapon, return to the Waltz. You’ve got forty-five seconds.”

The safe’s digital eye thrummed beside it in the wall. A slight flicker of laser-light, then a flash-bulb to scan her neural imprint. At the same instant, her optics had flashed too, instituted the fiber-optic hack that falsified the stored imprint. It was deleted before the safe hissed, belched dry-ice fog through its broken seals.
A lone vial of black, viscous fluid stood upright in the center of the safe. She reached for it quickly as her ear chirped. “Careful. One drop of that stuff’s enough to kill everyone in that building if it touches you.” She slowed her approach, slid her hand in carefully to retrieve the vial. “If that seal breaks, you’re screwed. It’ll suck all the moisture out of your body in a micro-second, use it as fuel to spread through the air. The whole building would be contaminated in less than a minute.”

She slipped a hand between her breasts, drew out a small, metal cylinder, only slightly larger than the vial. With a twist, a lid popped off one end, and the vial filled the cylinder. A second twist replaced the cap.

“Twenty seconds.”

A quick whirl for the door and a slight of hand deposited the cylinder back between her breasts. She was gone from the room with a long gait, re-entered the ballroom to weave through the crowd and slip back into place with her accomplice. The waltz ended with a final spin and a deep dip. The crowd left their stupor with applause. The two bowed, parted into the sea of bodies as the orchestra launched into an interlude.

Before anyone could think to search for her, she was in the ballroom’s ornate lobby of marble and gold fixtures. The glass doors gave way to the chilly air of a wintry, Moscow night. Amid the darkness beside a burned out lamp-post, a man approached her. She was still, stiff as the dead with her neck rigid and her eyes ablaze.

He approached with a light, Russian accent that hardened the more lisped of his syllables, “You ‘ave done well.” He stopped a few feet from her, held out a hand, “The vial.”

She reached into her dress, produced the cylinder, her body mechanical. The pleased look in his eyes gave way to wide terror; the vial was tossed underhand through the air. He dove. The wind left his chest as he flopped onto his belly, the vial safely nestled in his hands.

She was over him in an instant, a stiletto heel poised over the back of his hand. He stared up in horror.

“Surprised?” She dug the heel in to a yelp. “I promise, that’s the least of the pain you’ll endure if you ever try to use me again. Your programming’s failed. I saw to that myself.”

He groaned, “I’ve no idea what you’re–”

She dug the heel in deeper, felt bone crack, crunch, “You and your people thought you could hack my neural software the way you hack everyone else’s, use me to do your bidding. You put on this big, elaborate show, and that man in there will never remember what he did, or why. Just as you planned it.” Her eyes were lethal, “Just as you had planned to do with me.” She laid her weight into her leg, knelt with the other to whisper at him, “Do it again, and I promise; that weapon’s effects will be a reprieve from what I will do.”

She eased back up, the man in tears as he cradled the cylinder and his bloody hand.

She turned to step away, hesitated, “There are billions with neural software and body-augs. Find someone else to do your dirty work.” Her bone-mic activated in her ear with a thought, addressed her handler, “And that includes you too; lose this frequency.”

The Pod: Part 6

December 25, 2015December 24, 2015 ~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

The Militia

With our militia at hand, we began patrolling a large city block. My Colleague and I were the commanders of the make-shift army. We set up high-powered electronic perimeters, assigning shifts to militia-members. It was exciting, invigorating. The local police, thoroughly disbanded from the chaos, came to us for help. Indeed, we offered what we could; a safe refuge, and free meals for those willing to carry their share of work. Though I make it seem more grand than it was, it was inspiring to see what had come of just a few days time.

The city block was barely a mile squared, and only a few places within had been left habitable by the rioters and looters. As such, most people were jammed like sardines into a few small homes. But food was abound, and security a given. It had to be, for this was where we were constructed the weapons. While it was true we had ample defenses there was still the matter of the swarming behemoths, demons, and all other manner of concocted apparitions wandering about. They seemed to have sensed the area was off-limits when their first forays against our perimeters were met with their demise. Since our militia had secured the block, the swarms had re-evaluated their strategy.

It is not a stretch to think there might be some capabilities for collective self-preservation in the swarms. It is more of a stretch however, but by no means impossible, to believe these swarms had begun thinking for themselves. Perhaps they had devised a means of inter-communication; their programming was already sophisticated enough to work as a group containing individuals– this was their purpose, after all. A swarm’s behavior dictated many things, but without complex intelligence necessary. What lends doubt to this last point however, is the coordination of the last attempt on our perimeter. The swarms have greater means of intricate processing than the average insect swarm. This, I assume, has allowed the change in their goals. They no longer appear target individuals, but instead, groups. This, among other things, suggests a communication, perhaps even a central leadership.

The attack, though in itself not indefensible, displayed a tactic astonishing to even the simple minded: They came at us from all sides of the block, as if to divide us and overwhelm individual groups. The swarms managed to injure several of the militia’s patrolmen. In the disorder that ensued, a few managed to breach an unguarded section by flying high overhead toward the block where we lay in hiding. There is an immovable contingent of weaponry hidden on either side of the main buildings both at street level and atop the roofs. These few guns are more than enough for our protection, and were invaluable in this skirmish.

We eliminated the breaching swarms with that most spectacular of raining fire that signals their demise. Nonetheless it appeared then, as it does now, that they had collectively learned tactics. They had transformed from masses of picturesque nightmares, bent on murder, to full-blown, intelligent beings ready to sacrifice themselves for whatever cause a machine might have.

Thankfully, since then we’ve neither heard nor seen them. The militia has prepared a scouting party for search and reconnaissance. Speculation suggests they are near a large substation south of our perimeter. If true, it would be advantageous for both sides. While swarms in their individual masses are still vulnerable to electrocution, if banded together in a large enough group they might be invulnerable to our weapons. If such is the case, the power station’s massive electrical-charges would be all the energy we need to patch the weapons into, and eliminate even the most massive of swarms.

Even if we are able to strengthen our weapons, the possibility of high-voltage traps is a real danger. As well, the massive swarms’ power draw from the area might ground our guns, making them useless. It is a heavy burden on all of our shoulders that we might see an unfavorable ending to this fight.

Whether or not the news that returns changes anything is not something any would wish to speculate on. There is no point in riling ourselves up. We must focus on a supply run before we can mount any sort of offensive.

Sometimes I think of that young CEO, whatever his name, to fuel my anger and hatred towards these swarms. There is no way now that the man can ever reclaim any title to a fascist throne. I have to wonder, is hidden away in one of his mansions? Is he cowering in fear, or laughing in the face of his fortune and fame amidst the chaos of his shortsighted ambitions? More importantly, did the man surround himself with these Pods? Was he slaughtered outright like the countless others who’ve died at the hands of their own, deluded dreams?

Our scouts returned with word that the swarm is amassing at the substation. They were able to meet with our caravan from town. Travel is slow from desiccated streets, but our people continue to be well fed. The attack is to be planned. My colleague and I suggest detonating homemade explosives within the substation. Any possible chain reaction they much cause would send surges of electricity through the area, that might be capable disabling the swarms. Afterward, we would inevitably begin mopping up the last of the surviving swarms of nanites. Most we have discussed this with agree.

It is a curious thing to plan attacks on microscopic creations, once so prevalent and revered by our society. Now we must hunt them without mercy, for that is what they’ve shown us. It may be a fatalist assertion, for there is no way for them to show mercy, they’ve no concept of it. It’s possible they’ve no concepts at all, though the concept of domination appears to have emerged within them. It is possible, so sophisticated is their programming, that they were told to learn from our dreams to help make them a better experience and present us the greatest challenge. In the grand scheme, this is humanity’s dream: To triumph as one group over adversaries whom view us as enemies, forgoing regards of our own petty differences we’ve concocted over the eons.

What a strange and terrible platitude to behold, but perhaps it has been the solution all along; for now we do band together as one. We have risen up as a unified group, protected the weakest of us, fought together whilst bypassing the prejudice, bigotry, and indifference that has otherwise been so prevalent. The road ahead is no doubt filled with either victory or tragedy, triumph or terror, hope or hopelessness. In any case, it will be a long road.

Bonus Story: Happy Holidays, Welcome to Hell

December 23, 2015January 6, 2018 ~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

If examined from the proper angle, “Happy Holidays” and “Welcome to Hell,” might be the most synonymous terms in language. Take the two for what they are; the loathsomely required parroting of meaningless verbs as nouns– Hell and Holidays being the most glaring of these modern, bastardizations.

Hell: noun, a theoretical place of evil and damnation. Verb; a state of being in which one considers suicide the preferable alternative. Holiday; verb, a segment of time synonymous with vacation used mostly in colloquial, European English. Noun; a period of time in which one considers murder of one’s relatives and/or self the preferable alternative to suffering yet another, drawn-out, unbearably awkward brush with so much feigned, festive joy one’s eyes begin to bleed.

Take the case of Katherine Marigold (aka Kate) as food for thought. Former high-school sweet-heart turned divorcee and single-mother when The Asshole went nuts and finally fell of the rails. Apart from the two kids she loved but was stuck with anyway, she’d also inherited The Asshole’s family– or rather, the Asshole family, if seeking formality. Though Kate’s children were blood to the Assholes, she was not. It required a constant, delicate, political finesse to maintain one’s bird from rising pointedly every other weekend as she dropped the children with Grandmother and Grandfather Asshole.

But the Holiday Hellride Extravaganza? That was a different story altogether. It always began with kindly, sage old Grandmother Asshole calling on Thanksgiving. After five minutes of unwarranted gossip that usually allowed Kate time to cook, eat, and discard a single TV dinner, Grandmother Asshole would politely inform her that the children would be home within the hour. After ten years, Kate knew the drill. She didn’t even bother to unlock the front door for another two hours.

Admittedly, those first few years were hectic, chaotic, miserable even. She hadn’t quite worked out the Assholes’ patterns yet. As a result, three years of Thanksgiving nights passed with her at edge of the couch, eyes locked on the door. With her heart in her throat, and a habitual check of her cell-phone every thirty seconds, she wallowed in terror in case, this time, there was an accident, or rollover, or fatal spin-out.

Those first years that she spent on edge, poised to launch herself out the front door should the worst have happened, were always met with the same ending: As soon as her coat was zipped, her keys in-hand and at the ready to go searching, “her babies” arrived safe and sound. Their cute button noses were always tainted just the cutest shade of red, while they emitted the smells of turkey, gravy, and an Asshole’s fourth whiskey sour plastered on their cheeks from a kiss.

During those first years, Kate praised various deities for the safe return of her “munchkins” while she watched Uncle Asshole’s tail-lights drunkenly fish-tail away through the snow. But such was the nature of every Thanksgiving, there was no helping it.

But Christmas? She wasn’t sure she knew that word anymore, not really. She knew the slow beep of the cash register as she slipped longer and larger amounts of groceries over it, shuffled the line forward with the gathering waterfall of receipts. Or, if nothing else, she knew it from the slow beep that ticked away her own funds as she piled-on more books, clothing, and toys atop another wage-slave’s conveyor belt.

Christmases were “Big Days” as her manager called them; it was always the “Big Day” now. The world had gotten too politically correct, and she couldn’t risk ruffling feathers. Never mind that in parlance, the “Big Day,” was actually Christmas Eve somehow it now applied elsewhere. Christmas became the “Big Day”, and Easter was “the Start of Spring,” but Halloween curiously stayed the same. As did Thanksgiving. They were more, bastardized visions of former English. Thanksgiving might as well have been “slave over an oven day,” that she brazenly learned to avoid. Meanwhile everything between it and the Big Day was “Thanks for your money. Next!” month.

All in between the snow would always grow more frequent, hardier. The old Chevy that sputtered to a start on the best of days would groan and wheeze from the cold. Sometimes even, she’d be forced to toss boiling hot water on the beast’s engine. Why it worked, she wasn’t sure, but it did. Some days she even preempted it with whispers of sweet nothings; “c’mon baby,” “atta’ girl,” and “Just start you piece of shit!”

And as if in time with the gathering torrents of snow, so too came the brilliance and palettes of a million twinkle lights that never quite twinkled. With them of course, came the momentary joy that erupts in the human brain from such colorful arrangements. That momentary joy would burst forth through Kate’s chest with a half-smile, before it was once more suppressed by years of cynicism and the dilution of music that rotted the brains of the living. The newly-zombified would then shuffle about the stores chanting “Spend! Speeend!” from their wallets. Although their word-holes were silent, the empty looks in their eyes predicted their wallets’ future. Inevitably these “consumers,” would either end up in Kate’s way at a check-out, or even more horrific, on the far-side of her own cash register.

But Kate never complained. She couldn’t. Didn’t have time to anyhow. Between working eighty hours on her feet, being a full-time mother, and somewhere hoping to retain her sanity, she was forced to accept things as they were to trudge onward.

When the morning of the Big Day eventually came, it went more quickly than any other moment in time– and in a haze of hued paper shredded by tiny, fleshy claws as if in a tornado of knives. The neutral melange of clothing sprinkled with neon toys was all that ever remained to tell the tale. But Kate knew the tale already, was too consumed with the breakfast of eggs, bacon, toast and pancakes, for the “babies” before they were sent off to see the Asshole clan for the noon-time rendezvous.

Each year there was roughly enough time between their departure and return for a shower, a cup of coffee and an hour of “alone time.” Anyone in Kate’s shoes would admit that even Santa needed some time to herself. But alas, it was short-lived and the fun never ended there. Oh Satan’s great tits did it never end there!

For you see, that’s the second, biggest comparison between the two– Holidays and Hell that is; they are seemingly eternal, even if they’re only a few hours out of thousands. After the “Munchkins’” return from the Assholes, it was the Marigold’s time. Being as they were blood, Kate was given no choice but to slough off her few moments of personal peace, layer up her sunday-best, equip her thousands of pounds of arctic gear, then tramp through the snow-laden hellscape of others’ “Big Day.”

But such was the way of life, at least in her part of the world. And even if for only a moment, there was always a time where her smile wasn’t forced, her candor wasn’t canned, and that viral-contagion of Joy infected her, melted her brain, and made her forget all of the mindless abrasion of ancient music, oil-slicked, driven snow, and slaving over registers. Somehow, in some minute, moment, or any of the other colloquial chronologies, something made it all feel worth it. Usually, it was the smiles on “her babies’” faces or the helpless, hopeless laughter of a moment where life piled on just enough to knock her on her ass, tell her not to take things so seriously. And for that minute, moment, breath, she didn’t, and it was all worth it.

In a way, Kate knew she wasn’t alone. Like her, Humans in her part of the world had adapted to the flash and pizzazz, the fire and brimstone, the terror and torture. They’d learned to slave and suffer through the month of “Thank you for your money, Next!” and had even begun to use their drooling calls of “Spend. Speeend!” as a rallying cry.

But why? That’s the thing about Hell and the Holidays: they’ve both got their Twilight Zone-esque properties, their moments of surreality, their eventual points where a person’s eyes finally glosses over for a moment, and their brain melts for an instant, and gives way to the pure, joyous-insanity that causes laughter, familiarity. And each year it seems, another set of lights twinkles appears over another door. With a hypnotic pulse of morse-code at mushy brains, and a known, automatic cipher, the message is clear, “Happy Holidays, Welcome to Hell.”

Short Story: Twelve Hours

December 22, 2015January 6, 2018 ~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Twelve Hours

Twelve fucking hours.

Those were the words in Connie Sutter’s mind. That was the time-frame the Indian in the maintenance call-center had relayed after she pressed the “Emergency” button on the elevator’s touch-screen panel. Stuck between floors, or at one, it didn’t matter, stuck was stuck. To make things worse that homophobe, Sheila, was beside her.

In many, physical respects the two were similar, though mentality dictated otherwise. They were both young, long, lean, and ample-chested with rigid postures and punctual professional lives. They also both lived in two of the eighty-floor apartments in the new, “Jackson” building of Chicago; the first, high-tech dwelling for the “new-aged middle-class”– or at least, that’s what all the papers touted.

Connie was a high-volume data-entrant across town, and a lucky one at that. She’d dated the building’s architect in high-school until discovering her sexuality. When she came-out, he was understandably upset, but the two remained long-distance friends through the end of high-school and college. When Connie learned she would be forced to move to Chicago for Graduate school, Emery was the first person she called. He pulled some strings, got her an extremely reduced rate on her apartment, and wished her luck.

Conversely, Sheila was an architect, or at least one in training. She hadn’t helped to build this particular building, but it was common knowledge among Emery’s friends that she was shrewd, outspoken, and aggressive; or as Connie put it, “She’s a heinous bitch.”

To be stuck beside Sheila without prior-knowledge of her might have put Connie at-ease, but unfortunately, that same set of Emery’s strings had imparted her own nature to Sheila. As Connie remembered it, they’d met outside their apartments in the brushed-steel hallway. Unbeknownst to either of them, the juxtapositions of a dozen LED-screens and lights had lit each of their faces to accent features the other found most distasteful. Even now it permeated their memories, tinted their features as they stood apart from one another.

Connie had been inputting the code-lock on her door’s panel when Sheila had arrived. A momentary glimpse at the woman’s high-fashion heels and “come-fuck-me” business skirt made her scowl internally. Likewise, Sheila was disgusted by Connie’s hastily applied eye-liner, lip-gloss, and unprofessionally causal denim. They’d caught one another’s eye at the apex of their own bemusement, forced by social norms to entertain pleasantries, introduce themselves.

“You’re the new tenant?” Sheila had asked as she attempted to swallow her own tongue.

Connie put on her best smile– given the circumstances, more of a grimace– and extended her hand. Sheila had eyed it with superiority, they’d already heard of one another. It was, after-all, a semi-historic floor in a semi-historic building. In other words, a coveted residence. The other inhabitants had fought tooth-and-nail to procure their top-floor dwellings, Sheila among them.

“Connie Sutter,” she’d replied as her hand fidgeted in mid-air.

The hand withdrew as Sheila crossed her arms, put on her best, faux-cordiality, “I’ve heard of you. Friend of Emery’s– the lesbian, right?”

Connie’s blanked features sank further to disillusionment, “Yeah. That’s me. I guess.”

Sheila’s disgust was clear in her huffed scowl, “Just keep your weird sex quiet, and we’ll pretend neither of us exists.”

Her fingers flew over her touch-panel door-lock as she disappeared into her apartment, left Connie to fume in a slump. That night, Connie made sure to masturbate as loud as possible, her back arched against the door to vibrate through it and echo through the empty hallway. Luckily, no-one lived beside her, but there was no doubt Sheila had heard. That fact was clarified over the few weeks that followed as Sheila’s disgust avoided her in the hallways and elevator. Connie no longer paid it any thought, she’d defended herself, won. It was over.

Until now.

They were stuck together now. They fidgeted awkwardly, angrily. The touch-panel Indian had been loud enough for both the whole elevator to hear, and they were the only two in it.

Twelve fucking hours.

The maintenance crews had all gone for the night, the building left in the hands of the automated floor-scrubbers and sweepers– glorified, over-sized Roombas meant to replace the “human
element.” Unless there was a life-threatening incident, the maintenance crews wouldn’t be called in until morning. It had been one of the few things Emery had warned her about; the building’s owners, the Jackson foundation, were miserly in their way. They wished to help humanity by integrating technology into every facet of life. Apparently, humans didn’t help humanity; janitors least of all. It was stunted viewpoint spawned of corporate-greed, but it didn’t change Connie’s situation. She was stuck, heinous bitch homophobe with her.

But they weren’t just stuck, they were also incommunicado. It was uncommon knowledge that the EM fields that propelled new-age elevators interfered with cell-phone signals. The only way to make calls was through the touchscreen panel, hardwired directly to the call-center’s network, but the “techs” there weren’t in the business of carrying on conversations to stave off boredom.

Connie and Sheila fidgeted back and forth in the elevator, shuddered respectively when their motions randomly synced-up. To say there was palpable tension was would be an understatement, Connie downright felt it smother her– as though she stuffed a whole burger into her mouth at once, clogged her face-hole with greasy meat.

She swallowed hard, slowly eased out of her pull-over sweatshirt. Sheila rolled her eyes, leaned against a wall to stare at her chrome-reflection.

Connie sighed, “Twelve hours…”

“This’d go a lot faster if you didn’t talk.”

Connie rolled her eyes, sat on the freshly waxed floor, propped herself against the back-wall with her sweater as a pillow. Her eyes fixed ahead at her own reflection, occasionally caught the twitches of Sheila’s legs before they darted back from the “strip-me” stockings beneath her knee-length skirt. Sheila subtly watched her in the chrome, suppressed shudders with each look until she could barely contain herself. Her fingers clawed at her arms. Her eyes bored out Connie’s brains from a corner of her caricatured reflection. She caught a dart, swallowed hard, and chewed the inside of her lip. A dart at her, then back. Sheila trembled against fury. Her chest fluttered with held breath. Another dart.

“Jesus Christ! Keep it in check!” Connie’s face drew a scrutiny of Sheila’s sanity. “Don’t look at me like that you dyke!”

Her words echoed into silence. Connie swallowed terror from the froth of Sheila’s rageful face.

She stammered with shame that turned to exasperation, “I-I… what?”

“I said don’t fucking look at me! I’m not a piece of meat. And I’m not like you. If I’d wanted to be an object I’d’ve chosen it like the rest of you!”

Connie’s disbelief doubled, “What the hell’re you talking about?”

“I see that look!” She snapped.

Connie failed to suppress a laugh, “You think I wanna’ fuck you?”

“All you fags are alike. Sex crazed. That’s why you choose to flock together. You know you stand a better chance of fucking.”

A throaty snort slipped out, “You’re nuts.”

Sheila’s eyes were lethal. She huffed, turned away. Her body trembled in rage for a full-hour– one that Connie made sure to fill with long, nude gazes. The truth was, she wouldn’t have been attracted to Sheila even if they were alike. Sheila was too much like herself, bland, self-conscious, trying too hard to be taken seriously. Connie liked athletic girls– gymnasts, runners, and the like. They made for more acrobatic sex, could do mind blowing things with their petite flexibility that she could never manage. More to the point, Sheila was an idiot, and Connie like smart girls.

Connie somewhat remarked to this latter point, “No-one chooses to be gay, you dolt.” Sheila whipped toward her, opened her mouth, but Connie spoke before she could, “Don’t you understand science? Christ, the whole reason I’m stuck with you right now’s ’cause science’s screwed us.”

“Then explain it,” Sheila said, matter-of-factly. “If you’re so god-damned smart.”

“Aren’t you an architect? Didn’t you have to go through school?” Connie shook her head, “It’s simple biology; pheromones, hormones, genetics”

“Then we should wipe it out,” Sheila countered.

“Yeah, sure thing Mein Fuehrer, we’ll get right on that.”

“You’d dare–”

“The only reason you exist’s ’cause your parents’ pheromones attracted them together. Then their bodies secreted hormones that– unfortunately– led them to fuck and create you.”

Sheila’s eye twitched, “Oh and I suppose that’s different from you.”

“It is, actually,” Connie dead-panned. “My family’s all girls–”

“So you’re one of those freaks too, huh?”

“What?” Connie asked, dumbfounded. “No you idiot, pheromones influence physiology.”

“What’s that even mean?” She asked snidely.

“It means my four sisters– who are all straight– had too many raging hormones when my mom was pregnant. It forced certain changes to me in my mom’s wound from too much estrogen. Evolution happened. ”

“So you think you’re better than me, huh?”

“Really? Is that what you took from that?” Sheila was silent, her eyes lethally narrow. Connie rolled her eyes, laid her head back against the wall, “Idiot.”

Sheila huffed, turned away again.

Eleven more hours of this bullshit…

She stared up at her top-down reflection in the chrome ceiling, drifted into memories of her first girlfriend, Emily. She saw a mocha-skinned ear flush red as she nipped at the lobe, and felt her giggle and shudder beneath her. She and Emily had been gentle, loving people who’d hidden their relationship from their high-school peers to save themselves the same grief Sheila enjoyed imparting. Connie’d never dealt with her own, familial grief caused by her coming out. Instead, she took off for college to gain her BS in Mathematics, moved to Chicago for her graduate program.

Though she was “out” it was never her intention to be. Emery’d let it slip just before she started dating Emily, was the cause of their meeting, and word of mouth made it spread like wildfire in a drought. His accidental mistake became unending altruism toward her. Regardless, whatever Emily was doing couldn’t have been half as bad as this; she knew how to keep her mouth shut, had a monk’s patience. Connie didn’t.

She drifted in and out of a sleepy-daze for a full two-hours as Sheila fumed in the corner, her mind swept up in Connie’s disrespect and her own prejudices.

Why wouldn’t she want to fuck me anyhow? What, am I not good enough for the dyke-club? Do I not arouse her? I’d rock her fucking world. That’s what I do. How I get where I need to go. I’m good at it– even Emery knows it.

Connie shook awake as she dazed too near to sleep. Her eyes snapped open in time to catch Sheila steal a glance at her reflection. She ignored it, checked her digital wristwatch.

Nine more? Really, it’s only been three hours?

She lowered her watch, caught another stolen glance, saw Sheila’s legs tremble– either from exhaustion or fury, though Connie suspected the former.

“You can sit down, you know,” she said innocuously.

“I’m fine!”

“Yeah, okay, whatever,” Connie said. “If it helps I’ll stand– or would that be too submissive for you?”

“Go to hell.”

Connie eyes rolled audibly, “Just shut up and sit down. Last thing I need’s for you to faint and hit your head.”

“I won’t.”

“Yeah, okay, whatever. But you know if you do, I might have to give you CPR.”

Sheila swallowed hard, shuddered. She blew a burst of air from her nose, turned and sank against the chrome corner she’d been staring at, her legs cross-wise. She studied herself in the wall across from her, avoided Connie’s eyes as she ensured nothing beneath her skirt showed.

Connie snarked, “Feel better?” Sheila glared. “That’s what I thought.”

Sheila’s head rested against the wall, her eyes shut at the LEDs in the ceiling. She tried to calm herself, drift off. Connie slumped, contented by the silence, and dozed again. She woke abruptly to a tone on the elevator’s touch-panel. Sheila snapped from sleep, groggy. She sighed, rose to approach the panel, pressed “enter.”

The Indian came through, tinny from the panel’s small speaker, “I am calling to inform you. We have run our diagnostic program and discovered a fault in your elevator’s EM-rail system.”

“Okay. And what’s that mean to me?” Connie asked.

“Normally, in case’s such as this we might call the building manager back to work should there be an emergency. I am calling to see that no-one is injured inside, correct?”

“Yeah, but if you can report it why–”

“That is excellent. The next shift starts in six hours. The building manager will–”

“Wait, why can’t you just–”

“Arrive at six AM, local time. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“This is ridiculous! Put me through to the manager and I’ll–”

The screen dimmed, the remote call ended. Connie heaved a sigh, rolled her eyes.

“Unbelievable,” Sheila spat.

“I’m taking the stairs from now on,” Connie muttered facetiously.

Sheila scoffed, “You live on the top-floor of an 80-story. You’re not walking all that way.”

I wish I had.

Connie returned to her spot against the wall, “Yeah, whatever.”

Sheila closed her eyes again. How melodramatic. Jesus, no wonder all of them take drama.

Another hour, more thoughts, and more restless sleep. Neither of them seemed to regard the other’s presence as much now. They drifted in and out of their mutual, inconsiderate thoughts, their only similarities the underlying wish to no longer be trapped. Water and food would’ve been nice, but Connie’d gone longer, and Sheila seemed fine.

Connie’s thoughts eventually drifted back to their first interaction in the hallway. She knew she had been ambushed even then, but why? Why even make the introduction? Neither of them seem to care much for social conventions, Connie’s loud orgasm had been evidence to that– as had Sheila’s obvious snap in the elevator. Why force themselves to pleasantries at all? Was it merely their mutual desire to dominate the other’s psyche, assert themselves?

Connie found herself amused at the thought of a towering intellect that forced Sheila to her knees with a cowering, introspective terror. She chuckled aloud without realizing it.

“What!” Sheila snapped.

“Huh? Oh nothing, just thinking about something.”

“Oh, yeah, like what, vagina?” She derided.

Connie’s mental filters were too fatigued to work properly, “Oh yeah, a big ‘ol hairy muff right in my face. That’s what I’m laughing at.”

“What the hell’s so funny about a vagina?” Sheila spat.

Connie shook her head, “I’m not laughing at that, you idiot. Although, now that you mention it, it would be pretty funny if you put some googly eyes over it– you know the kind you buy in a pack of hundreds?” Sheila’s face blanked. She visibly struggled with a dilemma. Connie continued with rising laughter, “Maybe if you glued ’em on above the muff, and– well one time I saw this vid of a naked-chick skydiving, the air was pushing her lips all around. Add the eyes with some screaming sound-effects as everything’s going wild, maybe make it look like its diving toward some enemy for battle–”

Connie couldn’t contain her laughter. Sheila’s eyes were wide, she dared not picture a vagina in the presence of one of them lest some sort of sapphic voodoo consume her.

“What is wrong with you?” Sheila asked at Connie’s apexing laughter.

“Oh c’mon, haven’t you ever looked at your own pussy in the mirror, or are you just a brood-mare for the state? Hell everyone thinks their junk’s weird looking. Even most’a the guys I know.”

“I like male genitalia,” Sheila chided.

“Yeah, I bet you do. But even they think it looks like some kind of wrinkly hot dog– or an elephant’s trunk. Haven’t you ever seen one do a helicopter impression?”

Connie’s tongue thwop’d against her lips. Her finger bounced side to side in the air with her head as she bellowed the noise with glee. Sheila’s face wrote a thesis on the difficulty of containing her momentary amusement. Thankfully, Connie was too consumed to notice.

“How would you even know what that looks like?” Sheila asked, genuinely confused.

Connie stifled her laughter, “Oh like I’ve never seen a rod before. You must not know much about lesbians.”

“I know all I want to, thank you.”

“Then you know we actually use a lot of penis-shaped toys.”

“I don’t want to know that.”

“Oh like you don’t have a vibrator.” She quickly corrected herself, “Well you probably don’t. No woman could be so uptight and still pleasure herself.”

Sheila huffed disgust, “That’s none of your business.”

Connie rolled her eyes, snorted, “Yeah, whatever.”

“You never told me how you knew.”

Connie gave a snort, re-focused, “Right. I knew a guy in college. He was very effeminate, too gay to function, but he also thought women’s bodies were much more geared toward sex with men.”
“I agree. It’s why your kind are wrong.”

Connie scowled, “C’mon, don’t ruin it. We’ve been through this.”

Sheila sighed, threw a hand up, “Fine. Tell your story.”

Connie returned to her recollection, “Anyway, we were drunk ‘n he had this idea that we should… well, compare. Since neither of us would be interested in the other, we figured what the hell, right?”

“See? Sex crazed,” Sheila interrupted with superiority.

Connie tilted her head in disbelief, “Oh please, like you didn’t do stupid shit in college.” Sheila visibly bit the inside of her lip, refused to admit agreement. “That’s what I thought. Anyway if you’ll let me finish; basically I agreed with him, said it looked like some kind of weird, alien-face all drawn up and cold, or maybe an elephant with the balls as ears.”

Sheila stifled a laugh with a burst of air, but Connie rose to her feet. “He was so drunk he goes–” she thrust her hips, gyrated them, trumpeted like an elephant. “BRROOWWW! I am the motherfucking king of Africa! I lost it. Fell over laughing.” Sheila visibly struggled as Connie shifted her thrusts, thwop’d with her tongue, “Now I’m a fucking Cobra-attack chopper.” She darted forward, gyrating, banked around in the tight elevator. “Roger, echo Charlie-One, we see the target.” Connie’s hips gyrated faster, her mouth spit machine-gun noises. “There I am, on the floor crying my eyes out, totally naked, and he’s–” She riffed a classic rock song in time her movements, headbanging with it.

Sheila’s mouth quivered in odd shapes. Her cheeks bloated, red. Her eyes watered against sharp breaths that suppressed laughter. Her composure cracked. She burst into a raucous fit as Connie’s head and hips banged in time to a long-past chart-topper.

She stopped to catch her breath, leaned back against a wall in a pant. Sheila was in tears.

Connie laughed between deep breaths, “When we’d settled down, he said something about gay guys loving Jethro Tull ’cause they could always imitate playing the flute.”

Sheila’s laughter pitched higher. Her chest bucked for air, “What the hell’s that even mean?”

Connie shook her head, “I still have no idea.”

Sheila sniffled, the imagery vivid in her mind. She swallowed hard to regain her composure. She huffed, upturned her nose, “They are funny looking.”

Connie snorted, “To say the least.” She considered something a moment, heaved a breath, “So, now that you’re not entirely angry– why do you hate me so much?”

Sheila looked to her, dead-panning, “’cause you’re a lesbian and it’s a filthy thing.”

Connie was taken aback by the sudden, autonomous reversal, “So… you can laugh at my jokes and still hate me? What, did your husband cheat on you with a man or something?”
“I’ve never been married,” She said matter-of-factly. “And no, that’s never happened. And it wouldn’t either, because I’m an excellent lover.”

Connie choked on a snort, “So? We’ve established this; if someone’s gay, they’re gay. You can’t change that. So what is it really? Were you raised to believe it was wrong or something?”

“Of course I was. My parents were good people. They took care of us. They’d’ve never let one of you corrupt us.”

Connie slapped her forehead with a palm, massaged her face and eyes as it slid downward, “Christ, you can’t really be this dense.”

“Do not insult my intelligence,” Sheila spat. “I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class.”

Connie looked away in thought, then sank back against the wall, “Look, just shut up about it. You really don’t know what you’re talking about. We don’t choose anything. None of us. We don’t choose our names, or eye or hair color, or who our parents are– and trust me, even with as much as I love women, we don’t choose to be gay. Life’s beyond our control. All of it, but especially these things. If you really believe the bullshit us-verse-them stuff, I can’t change your mind. And I’m not even going to try.”

“Good,” Sheila said, despite a hint of dissatisfaction.

Three more hours crawled by, Connie dejected by the momentary glimpse of possible camaraderie. In truth, she was mostly friendless in Chicago. Emery was always gone on business, or else never had time to hang when he in town. Beyond that, grad-school courses involved too much socialize without an excuse. She’d even considered online dating, but ended up surfing forums, shirking projects, or lurking in place of interacting. She certainly didn’t want to be friends with people like Sheila, but the lack of human interaction plagued her.

Sheila finally broke the silence, compelled by whatever path her thoughts had taken, “I don’t really hate anyone.” Connie’s head rose, angled toward her. “I don’t have time for it. Hate requires a lotta’ extra thought.”
Connie’s brow furrowed, “Could’ve fooled me.”

She rolled her eyes with a huff, “Like you’d know anything about me.”
“Or you me, or any of… us. How many gay people do you even know?”

“I don’t need to know anymore. I know the one gay woman that had a screaming orgasm after I asked her to keep it to herself.”

Connie snorted a laugh, “I wouldn’t have done that if you hadn’t been so hostile.”

“Well it was rude.”

“And well-deserved.”

“Still rude.”

Connie shook her head, “Look, I’ll admit it didn’t help things, but… well, you’re a bitch. So am I. I also tend to antagonize people.”

“I’m only a bitch when people make me one.”

“So the very act of my existence, despite never speaking to you, made you into a bitch?”

Sheila’s eyes narrowed, “I saw that look. That “she thinks she’s better than me” look.”

“Didn’t you?”

“I am.”

“How?”

“Because I am.”

Connie shook her head, “No. Ugh-uh. That’s not how that works. Saying a thing doesn’t make it a thing. Maybe, in the interests of keeping the peace, maybe I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did, but that doesn’t change what you did before.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. Don’t you get that?” Connie said, flustered. “All I did was exist, and you hated me for it. That’s what that bullshit us-versus-them thing is. It’s people turned into assholes at the very thought of others unlike them– like the Hitler thing.”

“Fuck you for that by the way,” Sheila spit. “I’m not a monster.”

“I’ll paraphrase what you said; “let’s exterminate a group people based on their genetics, cause they’re not like me.” Who’s that sound like?” Sheila’s mouth made funny shapes to retort, but her brain came up empty. She looked away, conceded defeat, but Connie pressed her. “Look, I get it. Whatever your reasons, you dislike certain people, but don’t try to act superior to them. There’s a difference between disliking someone because you do, and because you believe you’re supposed to.”

Sheila remained silent, clearly thinking on was being said. Unbeknownst to Connie, Sheila had always considered herself a good person– aggressive perhaps, but never such a monster as Connie suggested. In fact, the comparison stung deeper than she let on; her great grandfather had been one of the Germans that had helped the Jews escape the holocaust. It had always been a point of pride; he’d proven his obvious tolerance so she wouldn’t to.

But gays, really? Is that really an apt comparison? I don’t thrown them in camps, but…

Her train of thought ended there, and she realized, had carried on much longer than she could recall. She caught Connie checking her watch, sucked up her pride.

“Do you have the time?”

Connie eyed her, bit her bottom-lip, “Two more hours.”

Sheila sighed, “Thank you.”

Connie’s head laid backward. She shouted at the air, “Fuck, I just wanna’ get outta’ here!”

“Am I really bothering you that much?”

Connie was flabbergasted, “Not everything has to do with you.”

“Maybe not, but you seem rather impatient at my presence.”

“Trust me, I’m just naturally impatient. Always have been,” Connie replied spitefully.

Another hour of silence passed. One more to go. Sheila had been mulling over something she was afraid to admit. Mostly, it was a buried, natural inclination toward know-it-allism that fueled curiosity. She wouldn’t have admitted nosiness, but most certainly curiosity. It was a good thing in all respects, helped her learn, regardless of how others felt about her. Without such knowledge however, the question that escaped her lips seemed ill-timed, ill-advised, and shattered a fragile calm in Connie that had become shaky from hunger, boredom, and cabin-fever.

“How did you know you were a lesbian?”

“What?” Connie asked, stunned by the question.

“I said, how’d you know you liked women?”

Connie’s mind was plagued by her state. She looked Sheila dead in the eyes, as an alien studying a new species might. The answer was literally contained within her second sentence, but she was too ignorant to realize it.

Connie’s stomach rumbled, forced a tremor to her hands shook, “Think about the two sentences you just said, then report back.”

Sheila’s eyes darted over the floor, “So… you knew you were a lesbian because you like women?”

“Sounds difficult, doesn’t it?” Connie rebuked sarcastically.

“Maybe.”

“How’d you know you liked men?”

Sheila thought, replied simply, “When I hit puberty I found them attractive.”

“So why would it be so different for me?” Connie pressed.

Sheila looked around, shrugged, “Because you’re not supposed to.”

“Says who?”

She shrugged again, “I dunno, it’s just not part of the world.”

Connie’s arms were locked in a cross, “Are you serious? Do you realize what you just said? Let me rephrase it so you can hear. How’d you know you were gay? Oh, puberty? Aren’t you not supposed to be gay? Says who? I don’t know, being gay’s just not a thing.”

“Yeah, and?”

“And?” She said, irate. “Do you not realize how retarded that was? You’re gay? Oh there’s nothing gay in the world.”

“That’s not what I–”

“You’re a fucking moron.”

“Hey that’s–”
Connie wasn’t listening. She’d been forced along an angry tangent that spiraled onward with a flailing hands and arms, “Fucking hell. I swear! It’s people like you that make life awful. People like me, who’ve been persecuted their whole lives, attacked in the most malicious ways, all because you’re too ignorant to stop and think about the damage you’re causing.”

“I never did anything to you!” Sheila countered.

Connie rose to her feet, furious, “Except you’ve treated me like shit for the last eleven hours cause I like tacos instead’a sausage. Do you have any idea how ridiculous that is, or how much that shit hurts a person? Do you really think you’re better than me because you prefer to cum a certain way? Jesus Christ, d’you know how many kids kill themselves each year– young children, teenagers, even adults– because of the kind of shit you’ve been spewing?”

“That’s not my fault!”

Connie shook her head, possessed by her anger, “God damn it, yes it is! Morality may be a gray area, but this isn’t. You’re either spreading or enabling hate, or you’re against it. And the kind of hate you’ve been spitting out tells me enough to know this isn’t the only place you do it– it’s also the same shit that makes people kill themselves!”

“You’re being dramatic,” she said, weakly defensive.

“Oh really,” she said, taking a knee in front of Sheila. “Then answer this; what would you do if this little spiel of yours ended here, and later you found out I killed myself– slit my wrists or put a bullet through my own head ’cause of it? Would you even care?” Sheila’s face scrunched up. Connie pressed her for an answer at nose-length, “Tell me, would you even give a fuck about a person taking their own life away ’cause of something you said?”

Sheila sniffled. Tears edged into her eyes. She spat with a whimper, “I’m not a bad person!”

Connie froze, “What the hell?”

“I’m not a bad person. I’ve never done anything to deserve that.”

“What’re you–”

Sheila balled up in the corner, wept, “Shut up! Just shut up!”

Connie was confounded. It was as though Sheila had been confronted by some terrible thought or memory. Connie shook her head, returned to her spot, confused. She watched Sheila for a few moments before she regained a shaky composure.

Connie slid sideways to look at her dead-on, the two now at opposite sides of the elevator, “You wanna’ tell me what that was all about?”

Sheila breathed, her face full of grief, “You wouldn’t understand.”

Connie swallowed her pride once more, “Look, I dunno what it was all about, but… I’m sorry if I upset you. I really just–”
She wiped at her runny mascara, examined her hand with stuttered breath, “My father killed himself when I was young.”

“I’m… sorry?” Connie replied, confused. “I was just trying to make a point.”

“You did.”

Connie’s head tilted in agreement, but she countered, “Look, I don’t know what to say about that, but… d’you blame yourself for it or something? You–”
“He always said I was a “bad girl” that I’d never grow up to be good because… I was a bitchy little brat who didn’t ever learn from anything. And then, after he said it one day, I ran out. When I came home there were… cop cars all over and–”

She sank back into tears. Connie was stung. She chewed her lip, checked her watch; half-hour ’til shift-start. She swallowed her pride, slid across the floor to Sheila’s side, and put an arm around her. Sheila tensed up, shied away.

Connie shook her head, pulled her in, “I’m not coming on to you.” She breathed, rocked Sheila to comfort her. “Look, I’m sorry.”

Sheila sniffled again, “Yeah, I know. Y-you… you couldn’t have known.”
“I don’t… I don’t know why it happened, but I know it wasn’t your fault.”

Sheila nestled her head against Connie’s chest, “I know.” They sat in silence for a long moment, as time ticked away. When Sheila finally spoke again, she did so with distance. “I don’t wanna’ be a bitch, but I have to be aggressive. The men I work with… well, I guess it just, transfers over.”
Connie nodded, “I don’t fault you for asserting your place in the world, but treating me like you have, I can’t excuse that.”

The two parted organically as Sheila sat upright beside Connie. She cast a glance at her, noticing for the first time that her bright, round eyes were stunningly beautiful.

She looked to her skirt, preened a corner of it, “What was it like for you?”

“Huh?”

“You said it was bad, but… what was it like?”

“Oh, um, well,” Connie stalled, the memories to painful to be dredged up without at least some, mental preparation. She swallowed hard, “Mostly just the same kinda’ shit as this. That’s why I eventually got through it. You can only hear the word dyke or fag so much before you just get tired of it, or loses all meaning. Besides, sexuality’s only one, small part’a human being. Every one of us has different things that make us unique. Sexuality’s not even in that category.”

“Did it make you… suicidal?”

Yes.

Connie sighed, “Emily made it better.”

“Emily?”

“My first girlfriend,” Connie replied as she sank into a bittersweet memory. “She was sweet, beautiful. I think part of it was made more difficult for her ’cause she was mixed– black dad, white mom– so she clung all the harder to me. We were good friends, but everyone knew I was gay. I think it made them suspect it of her for a long time too, but we hid it anyhow. Otherwise, it was all directed at me. A couple people said some things about her but… well, the point is, you get through it ’cause you have to. If you’re lucky, you have a friend, or a girlfriend– someone– to help you along the way. I had Em, and she was… ”

Connie trailed off. Her eyes welled with tears. She cleared her throat to keep her composure.

“Did you love her?”

“More than that, but yes,” Connie admitted.

“What happened?”

Connie shrugged, “High-school ended. We went our separate ways. She wanted to do one thing, I wanted to do another. We loved each other in a way no-one could top or change. Each of us was the others’ first. There’s just… that place, you know?”

Sheila nodded, “I guess it’s just human nature then. It’s romantic though– a good story.”

Connie agreed, “That’s why it upsets me so much when people don’t consider that. Apart from obviously hurting someone’s feelings, people don’t think of all the love they’re denying them. Emily and me… we were just two of millions who’ve been told we shouldn’t be allowed to love because of the way we do it.”

Sheila shook her head, “No wonder you hate me.”

Connie countered, “I don’t hate you. That’s the thing. Generally speaking, people who are oppressed or persecuted don’t hate, they’re just frustrated, scared, or sad. I do hate ignorance. It’s an universally unfair thing, but especially in this case. I mean, we’re both women– professionals. We’re already handicapped in so many ways by our society, have to work that much harder because of it. I hate that too, and ignorance on top of it just makes us separate ourselves even further ’cause of ingrained prejudices.”
Sheila twiddled her thumbs as she fought to find her words. She rose and extended a hand to Connie, “Go ahead.” Connie shrugged, pulled herself up. Sheila hugged her, “I’m sorry I’ve been such a heinous bitch.”

Connie hugged back, “It’s okay, I guess.”

The elevator jolted, parted them. The lights flickered, as a vertical ascent began. The elevator rocketed upward along its E.M. fields, like a rail-gun that fired them at the building’s top-floor. It slowed to a stop, and the doors opened with a ding.

Connie checked her watch, “Right on time.”

They eased themselves into the hall together, followed the chrome to their apartment doors in silence. The LED screens and lights had dimmed in the morning hour, the hall lighting supplemented by the sun that rose beyond a window at the hall’s end. The two stopped across the hall from one another, at their respective front-doors.

Sheila hesitated as Connie keyed in her pass-code. She looked back at Connie as her door slid open, “Look, I’m gonna’ take the day off after all this– I’m pretty tired, but…” Connie faced her from a lean in the jamb that blocked its motion tracker. She gazed across the hall, urged Sheila onward, “You… uh, wanna’ have a drink later or something? You know, as friends?”

Connie considered it, “Maybe, but… why?”

Sheila shrugged, looked to her feet, “I dunno. I just thought, maybe, since we’re both lonely we could … you know, hang out?”

Connie straightened, “Just c’mon. I’ve got a bottle of wine you might like.” Sheila hesitated, Connie met her eye, sighed, “You’re not my type anyway, I like smaller girls.”

Sheila chuckled, “Oh please, you’d do me, don’t lie.”

Connie’s eyebrow rose, “Full of yourself, are you?”

Sheila shrugged, stepped up to her, “I have to be. It’s a man’s world.”

Connie shook her head, motioned Sheila after her as she stepped in, “Yeah, fine, whatever.”

The door slid shut as Sheila spoke, “Twelve fucking hours, can you believe that?”