Into Her Darkness: Part 1

January 27, 2017January 26, 2017 ~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Honor Amongst Thieves

Crystal Kane sat at the front counter of a retro, 1950’s-style diner. It was a place three or four times her age. In her late-twenties, it might not have been saying much, but it felt the opposite. She’d been through the wringer, somehow come out in one piece, but older, thinner than felt fair. She’d been a cheerleader in high-school. One of the popular, beautiful girls, that exclusively dated those of similar status, and shunned anyone below her. That had ended on graduation day. She found herself alone when everyone else was going off to college. The friends that promised to call were, like so many other things, lost to life– disappeared without a trace.

That summer had been hell. Crystal had been a blissfully ignorant airhead all through school. Then, as if to reinforce that those days were over, life crumbled. Only weeks into “life beginning” she learned her father’d cheated on his taxes for all of his life. Likewise, her mother had… well, cheated the rest of it. The family split up. Dad went to jail. Mom occupied a new man’s trophy case each night. Crystal ended up out on her ass. Not much had changed since, at least not thematically.

A waitress poured her a cup of coffee at the counter. She’d never been one for alcohol. Downers weren’t her style– the costs of having been peppy until life became enough of a depressant to need no more. Most days, she haunted the diner ‘til lunch, sucking down coffee like a drunk to their hooch. No-one seemed to mind, nor bothered to learn her name. Par for the course, she guessed. She wasn’t one to complain. Not anymore.

The only spot of luck she’d found was the economy’d– and society at that– nose-diving the same time she did. She and others like her took advantage of it. They found free lodging in rundown or abandoned buildings in newly forming ghettos. Hardly the Ritz, but anything with a roof and most of four walls was better than street sleeping in bad weather. Along with a few others in “her building” Crystal managed to scrape together meals of scavenged offenses into a communal soup pot.

Crystal couldn’t recall her last, solid meal. She’d only managed to afford coffee by scouring the streets for change: one cup, one dollar, unlimited refills. The streets were running out of change though. Given the state of things, they weren’t likely to be replenished anytime soon. “Flat broke” was an understatement. There wasn’t a damned thing she’d bought or owned in nearly a decade. Periods were the worst, and a subject better left un-broached.

Someone sank into place beside her. The peripheral profile and weight on the stool said it was a woman. Odd. No-one sat near her. Ever. She didn’t blame them. She’d been forced to showering only during a proper rain. At most, once a week if she was lucky.Usually less.

The woman didn’t seem to care though. Something in the air between them said she was entirely different to most people. Crystal still refused to look at her, fearing any visible revulsion would shatter the remnants of her broken spirit. Nonetheless, she couldn’t deny the sensation of something forming in the air between them.

A robust, tomboyish voice directed words at her, “You look like hell.”

It couldn’t have been me, could it? Crystal remained motionless, wondering if her mind had finally cracked. She’d been waiting for life’s weight to split it open like an egg for years now. Sanity had always managed to keep it cushioned though. Maybe this was finally it– sweet release.

“Need a shower too,” the voice added. “Hair-cut wouldn’t hurt.”

The waitress stepped over, white and polka-dot clad. She habitually refilled Crystal’s cup. The other woman ordered a cup, waited to say anything else until it was brought.

“Talky thing, ain’t ya?” She said wincing at the coffee. “Shit coffee. Why’d you even bother to spend money on this shit?”

Crystal’s head finally rose, checked her left side to ensure no one was there. The same, empty stool greeted her as always. Her head turned back and right, the woman’s features focused. She was like something from a post-punk vid; shaved temples, short, platinum-blonde on top with blue highlights, and more piercings than seemed possible for a human face. Feline features around blue eyes and dark make-up drowned the metal. The neo-punk was topped off by a shredded t-shirt, leather jacket, and tight jeans stretched over combat boots.

If Crystal’d had any feelings left, she’d have found herself both envious and aroused by the woman. It wasn’t that she liked women, but rather, this one exuded such cocky confidence it madeherboth unlikable and unyieldingly desirable. Such paradoxical nature alone forced Crystal’s eyes to linger.

The woman met her eyes. “You know, if you cleaned up, you’d be good looking. You want a job?”

Crystal’s brow furrowed, “I’m not a whore, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The woman threw her head back with a laugh. “Honey, if I wanted a whore, I’d be asking the broads outside.” Crystal wasn’t amused. The woman’s face reformed seriously. “No, I need a woman. One rough enough to handle herself, but soft enough to look good. If you’re interested, just say yes. There’ll be a point of no return. Any time you want out before, say so. Once you’re past it, you’re locked in. Got it?”

Crystal shrugged. She’d done a lot of things, awful by even depraved standards. Mostly, it was solely to survive. Then again, what wasn’t these days? This idea seemed ludicrous anyhow: some stranger appears, offers her an out from the hell she’d been sucked into? Not a chance.

“What would I have to do?”

“Well, first, get cleaned up. Then, we’ll get you some new clothes. You’ll have to look the part, like me– so clothes, haircut, piercings.” The woman eyed her extensively. “Eventually, you’ll have to do something specific for me.”

“Like what?” she asked, more hopeful than she expected.

The woman frowned, glanced around, “You agree to come with me, I’ll tell you everything when we’re alone.”

Crystal eyed the half-empty coffee cup in her hand: what was the worst that could happen? Death? There were a lot worse ways she could think to go than trying to get out of this mess.

“Uh… okay.”

A few minutes later, the two slipped outside together. “I’m Angela, by the way.”

“Crystal.”

Angela led her around a corner of the diner, into an alley behind it. A BMW motorcycle was propped in the center of the small roadway, a helmet strapped to it. Angela climbed on, passed over the helmet. “Just don’t fall off.” Crystal did her best to swing a leg over the bike, put her hands around Angela’s belly. “No getting fresh. Not ’til you’ve showered, anyway.”

Crystal managed a snort. It was sort of a laugh. At least, closer to one than she’d managed in a long time. The bike started with a gurgle of fuel and the high-sounds of a performance-tuned engine. They took off, raged toward top-speed. Streets and ramshackle buildings blurred and zipped past. The scenery only sharpened long enough to corner before once more racing up to speed. The bike zigged and zagged toward the city’s edge. One of the piers came into view; a place once a center of nightlife where tourists were as plentiful as residents. Now, it was a sad caricature of itself. A few strips of abandoned buildings and storefronts were all that remained, like a coastal, ol’ west ghost town.

Angela maneuvered around a corner, into an alley, and raced toward a warehouse at its end. An abrupt turn found them facing down another alley. In its center a section of street began to rise up, wide enough to accept a vehicle: an elevator camouflaged by its place in the road and built into a housing underground. They zoomed into it, sank beneath the street. The elevator settled into place. Lights flared on across panel-lighted walls. Crystal was blinded. She blinked out water, found herself among a veritable showroom of modern and classic cars. Her jaw nearly fell off as her eyes bulged.

“Hop off,” Angela instructed.

Crystal obliged. Angela zoomed forward to a spot at the far-left, turned, and inched the bike backward with her boot-tips. Crystal shut her mouth, shuffled over, neck swiveling to take in classic muscles parked among super-cars, pick-ups, SUVs, and other bikes.

Whatever Angela did was clearly profitable, but what use could she have for Crystal? She wasn’t skilled, or all that smart, and had been living a vagrant’s life the last decade. She’d scrounged for every minor necessity. Luxuries didn’t even exist anymore– not beyond the few she saw now. What the hell could she possibly help with?

She met Angela at far-end of the garage, the bike’s engine still clicking from heat. Angela threw her leg over, rose to full height, then hung her helmet off a handlebar. She rounded at Crystal, surveyed her shabby clothing and hair again.

“Shower and a haircut.”

She thumbed her way past a print-locked door. Crystal followed her into a kitchen of black and chrome appliances, mahogany-stained cabinets, and black-granite counter tops. LEDs crawled to full-brightness in the ceilings and walls as they entered, cast warm light across equally warm, earthen tones. An island counter and stools at one side sat amid the L-Shaped kitchen’s center. Angela’s boots reverberated off the hardwood to the double-wide fridge/freezer combo as she dug out a bottle of wine.

Food peered out from the fridge, made Crystal’s stomach growl and her mouth water. Angela must’ve heard it. She whipped ’round, “I’ll order in. You like Chinese?”

She couldn’t be sure anymore, but wasn’t picky. “S-sure.”

“Good.” She slid a phone from her pants pocket, thumbed it, held it up.

For the next few minutes, Crystal was transfixed as Angela bantered Chinese to someone on the other end. She ended the call, slid the phone into a pocket, and dug for a corkscrew and scissors in a drawer. She led Crystal through the adjoined living room. More motion-sensor lights did their upward crawl, revealing plush, leather furniture, a glass coffee-table, and a large television and stereo sitting on standby. The place reeked of an excess contrary to the neo-punk air Angela’d cultivated. Yet somehow, Crystal sensed she was even more at home here than anywhere, as if her confidence alone ensure it.

They entered a large bedroom, passed its king-sized bed for a pair of doorways. Angela handed over the wine-bottle, directed Crystal into one door– a bathroom– and entered a walk-in closet beside it. The bathroom was the most modest room she’d seen yet: quaint, with a full shower-tub, toilet, and studio lighted mirror somehow retaining the elegance of the home’s other décor. Crystal focused on herself in the mirror though; it’d been months, years maybe, since she’d seen herself reflected in anything other than a sheet of metal.

She blamed Angela even less now for wanting her to clean up: her hair was more dread-locked than anyone but a Rastafarian had a right to. Her face looked smeared by handfuls of grease and road dirt to say nothing of the utterly pitiful clothing she wore. Above all, she reeked. She couldn’t smell it herself, so long accustomed to it, but she could smell everything else. By comparison, toilet mold was pleasant.

Angela reappeared with a pile of clothing, set it aside to unlace her boots, remove her socks, and roll up her pants, revealing a plethora of tattoos.

“Get naked.”

“Huh?”

She moved to turn on the tub, “You need to soak that shit off, and I need to cut your hair. So. Get naked.” Crystal hesitated. “I see it every day. If it makes you feel better, I’ll get naked too.”

Her eyes widened, “No, that’s… It’s fine. I’ll just–”

“Jesus, here,” she interrupted, tugging off Crystal’s long coat.

She helped to undress her upper half, then tossed the dirty clothes aside. A bra was evidently more than Crystal’d been allowed. Moreover, her clothing hadn’t prevented her bare skin from getting just as greasy and dirty as the rest of her.

The bath frothed with bubbling soap as Angela helped Crystal from her pants. There was no denying the homeless girl’s discomfort. To her credit, she powered through it for the sake of her new benefactor. Likewise, Angela remained detached, handled the whole thing as if a nursemaid.

Crystal plunged her feet into the hot water. Her eyes welled up involuntarily; a warm bath. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a warm bath. She sank into the water, like a cooked noodle snaking through a fork. The tears flowed as she submerged her head. On emerging, they were just more wetness, camouflaged by dirt-streaks and flushed cheeks.

Angela gave her a moment, then sat on the back-ledge of the tub behind her. “This is all gonna’ have to come off,” she said, settling in with scissors in-hand. “I’ll do my best, but honestly, you’d be better off shaving it.”

Hair-styles were the last thing on Crystal’s mind. The warmth infecting her was too powerful. The urge to sleep came on but would mean squandering it. Instead, she let a dull dreaminess take her. With it came the distinct fear of if she’d hallucinated Angela’s existence. If she had, she didn’t want it to end. She’d go to her grave never seeing reality again. Angela’s hands weighed her shoulders though, telling her it was reality; a bizarre one where someone gave a shit. At that, more of one than an entire world combined.

So, what was the price? She couldn’t help but wonder. Angela’s hands were rough, used to hard labor or something else that she couldn’t place. Their grip was strong; it tugged her hair firmly this way and that. The precise, staccato notes of the scissors told of dexterous fingers, certain of themselves and their actions.

Crystal’s curiosity finally piqued. “Why’re you doing this?”

Angela answered as best she could, keeping her mind focused on the task at-hand. “Short answer, I need a new partner. My job isn’t the kind you can do alone. My last partner left after a big job. I can’t keep working without one. Thing is, I know what it’s like being a street rat. I was one once. If it hadn’t been for someone doing this for me, I’d be where you were this morning.”

She was grateful, but the obvious question needed to be asked, “What kind of work do you do?”

“Let’s just say its legality is questionable,” she replied, tilting Crystal’s head. “Sit up.”

Crystal inched upward, nipples hardening from the cool air above water. Angela maneuvered her back, between her legs, laid her head back to trim the front of her hair. Crystal closed her eyes to avoid the awkwardness of looking up at her.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t know what that means.”

“I’m a contract thief.” Crystal’s eyes opened to a squint. Angela’s hands stilled. “Don’t judge me when I’m helping you. Trust me, there’s a lot worse ways to get by. Few pay as well.”

She winced, “Sorry. I’m… not judging you, but you don’t have to– you know, hurt people, right?”

“Only if they try to hurt me,” she said sternly. Crystal frowned. “You want out, say so.”

Crystal thought about it: given what she’d seen so far, Angela’s lifestyle was… well, a lifestyle. To say it was leaps and bounds beyond hers missed just how different their two worlds were. Even before the fall, she hadn’t seen such luxury. That it was all funded by so-called “dirty money” was unimportant given she possessed only a set of ragged clothes. If forced to choose between “dirty money” and penniless street-living, her morality was more than flexible.

Crystal eased her head back, “No. I’m still in.”

“But?”

“… Is it, you know, dangerous?”

Angela eased slowly into motion again, “Sometimes.”

Crystal closed her eyes. “Just don’t get me killed.”

“That’s the plan.”

Something acknowledged the possibility of it. Something else said she’d do everything to avoid it. Why, Crystal wasn’t sure, but a sense of intense loyalty resounded beneath it. At the very least, Crystal would follow things to their “point of no return.” Wherever it was, until then she’d at least feel like a human being again, rather than a creature eking surviving breaths. Maybe even, Angela’s company would prove as worthwhile as she felt Crystal’s would. Only time would tell.

Preview: Into Her Darkness

January 20, 2017April 12, 2017 ~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

Coming Next Week: Into Her Darkness

Crystal Kane has been homeless since she turned 18. Abandoned by her parents, her friends, and life, her downward spiral has been mirrored by a society that cast her out. At 28, all of that is about to change– at least for her.

A young woman named Angela deposits herself beside Crystal in a diner. Reeking, haggard, and certain a mistake has been made, Crystal is presented with an offer she can’t refuse: agree to follow Angela, and she may turn Crystal’s life around for the better. The caveat? Crystal must agree to become a thief-for-hire, after a time. Admittedly uncertain, Crystal finds it best to pursue the offer if only for a solid meal.

But as time passes, darker secrets begin to surface. Angela’s mysterious past looks to be on track to catch up with her. Crystal is set to wind up in the cross-fire. Would she rather return to homeless street-living, or stand beside her new mentor and friend risking certain death?

Into Her Darkness is the first in a new series of novellas chronicling the rise of a thief to master status. Set in a semi-futuristic world where technology is as abundant as the oppressed and downtrodden, Into Her Darkness will have you thieving for more! It all starts here next Friday, January 27^th. Don’t miss it!

Excerpt from Chapter 1 “Honor Amongst Thieves”

If Crystal’d had any feelings left, she’d have probably found herself both envious and aroused by the woman. It wasn’t that she was liked women, but rather, that this one exuded such cocky confidence as to make her immediately both unlikable and unyieldingly desirable. The paradoxical nature alone forced Crystal’s eyes to linger on her.

The woman met her eyes. “You know, if you cleaned up, you’d be good looking. You want a job?”

Crystal’s brow furrowed, “I’m not a whore, if that’s what you’re asking.”

The woman threw her head back with a laugh. “Honey, if I wanted a whore, I’d be asking the broads outside.” Crystal wasn’t amused. The woman’s face reformed seriously, “No, I need a woman rough enough to handle herself, but soft enough to look good. If you’re interested, just say yes. There’ll be a point of no return. Any time you want out before say so, but once you’re past it, you’re locked in. Got it?”

Bonus Short Story: Wraith

October 26, 2016January 6, 2018 ~ S.M. Nolan ~ Leave a comment

The pulsing throb of a sub-woofer sounded in the distance. The reverb of a wide, open room made fools of the treble and mid-range frequencies while an erratic strobe added to the place’s confusion. Below it and the disco ball, center stage, was Candy. She gripped and mounted the greased pole better than any other girl in the joint. Her body whirled and spun, unfurled and contorted with sexual predation and temptation.

Soren watched a cascade of bills flutter out around her from some jackass at the pit. Another one with more money than sense. Candy dipped low to show her tits from an upside down angle. To her credit, she was more an expert than any other girl Soren had. She swung past while upside down, gripping the pole, and managed to pull twenties from between his teeth with her own. She was an earner, and damned if she didn’t deserve every penny liberated from dumbasses like him.

Soren threw back the last of his straight scotch, made a come hither motion toward one of the other girls– a waitress in nothing but a G-string and two tassels. Soren ordered up another drink, stuffed an extra twenty in the side of her thong. She sauntered to the bar for his drink as he focused on the American across the curved booth from him.

The guy was well-dressed. No suit or anything, but he had a certain flair of style that said he liked fast women and expensive cars– or perhaps it was the other way around. In either case, he’d come in looking for more blow than anyone Soren had ever met. It wasn’t unusual that someone came to him for drugs. He ran the club, after all, and everyone knew if you blew enough cash on strippers you were probably doing coke off their tits at some point.

Still, Soren had gotten out of the game years ago. More importantly, there was something about this guy he didn’t like. Something in his features. They were American features, but with an almost translucent skin that he swore showed bone beneath. That’s not to say that Soren was prejudiced. One man’s money was as good as any others’ and he’d happily take it regardless. In fact, most of his best girls were Americans working off debts back home. The exchange rate nowadays was enough to bring in scores of ’em, even with his high standards.

This guy though, there was something in the way he held himself. He seemed not to inhabit the room, or even reality around it. It sent a chill down Soren’s spine. He didn’t like that. He’d learned to trust his gut long ago, and it was telling him to lose the guy. Something else though– curiosity, maybe– told him to understand the gut feeling better before deciding.

So, instead of sending the guy straight to the bouncer, who’d escort him out back to the dealer, Soren sat him down for a drink. He was going to do his best to suss out the guy’s overwhelming creep-factor. The thong and tassels girl brought Soren his scotch and something equally strong for the American. He watched her leave again, then refocused on the American before him.

“What you’re asking for,” he said casually, testing him. “It’s not something many people could get. Even if I were so inclined to make deals of that nature, it would be beyond me.”

The guy was clearly disappointed, but his face suggested he wouldn’t give so easily. He spoke with half-ridicule, half scorn, and in a tone so cold it froze Soren’s veins, “I thought you were a player, man. Cock of the walk, and all that shit.”

There it was, Soren thought. That was what he’d sensed, the thing he disliked, that he didn’t trust. At least, he was pretty sure that was it. The tone of voice had thrown him. Anyway, he should’ve guessed it; everything with this guy was dominance and alpha-level bullshit. He looked as though he had no idea how the game was played. Even if Soren were still in it, he wasn’t stupid; he wouldn’t have been so easily baited even on his worst days.

“Get out of here,” he said firmly.

The guy didn’t budge, only his jaw tightened. Soren made eye-contact with a bouncer. Bane was a thing of meat so wide he had to angle through the club’s doors to avoid getting stuck. He looked like he could lift a semi, and at that, Soren was pretty sure he did it regularly, just to pass the time.

Bane appeared as Soren rose. He drained the last of his scotch and buttoned his blazer, “Escort our friend outside. He’s hereby barred from the club for life.” The guy made to speak through his teeth but Soren spoke over him, “If he resists, break his knee caps.”

The guy held his tongue with a snarl. He stood to be escorted away. Soren blew a relieved breath feeling his blood warm again, “Americans.”

He made for the club’s rear, passed through the long room of lighted mirrors. The other girls were half-naked or getting there for their shifts while Candy finished being eye-fucked on-stage. His eyes skirted the girls for anything unusual, came away satisfied.

Past a door at the back of the dressing room, he entered his office. It was small, with just enough room for a desk, some chairs, and a couch along one wall. A laptop was closed and powered down on the desk. Behind them, a wall of flat-screen TVs showed feeds from cameras across the club. Soren gave them a passing glance then sank into his chair and opened the laptop.

It was roughly a half-hour later that the hairs on the back of his neck upended. He smoothed them with a hand. The same shiver from earlier coursed through him, made his shoulders buck and jostle with a shudder. His blood froze again. He swallowed hard, audibly.

“Something wrong?” A familiar voice said.

Soren spun ’round, a pistol out to see the American a little beside and behind him.

He raised the gun, “You!”

His features pointed lethally, “Me.”

“What the hell are you doing here!?” Soren demanded. “How the fuck did you get in?”

His face angled downward. Shadows played across it. He looked downright demonic now. His eyes glowed yellow from fury rather than light. His translucent skin iced over until his whole body was almost opaque.

Soren barked an order at him, “Get out!”

The man stared. The yellow eyes glowed in transparent sockets. Soren went pale as the wall behind the man appeared.

“You should’ve taken my offer, Mr. Soren. I could’ve made you rich.”

Soren thumbed the pistol’s hammer, ready to fire, “I’m warning you!”

There was a sudden flash. An icy wind impaled Soren. His innards froze. Ice crystals formed on his hands, froze the gun to them. He fell to the ground. His still-warm legs bucked him onto his back. He gasped for breath against frozen lungs. The man approached and Soren’s eyes widened.

“You wonder what I am,” he said, his voice now discordant with grating harmonies. “But a wraith is nothingness, that primal terror no man wishes to accept as true. It is for ego’s sake alone. He fears nothingness, for in it, he is nothing. And man must always be something.” He hesitated with a snarl. His eyes flared brighter, “But you will not be a man when I am finished with you. You will be nothingness too.”

The man suddenly disintegrated into a fog. It fired at Soren like a missile. He screamed, but it was drowned out by a climax of laughter in the dressing room and the pounding beat of a dancer on-stage. When Bane came looking later, he found nothing. There the wraith was proved honest; nothingness where once there’d been a man.

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?”