It was rainy season. Rain all the time, relentless. I never carried an umbrella anymore because what was the point? You’d never have your hands free. Anyway, a lot of the day, it was that drizzly gray rain that let you kid yourself you could run between the raindrops.
Three blocks. I could make it. Yeah.
I darted out the door. Mistake. It was only a light drizzle, nothing to slow anybody down, but nobody was on the street. The locals all knew something I wasn’t weatherwise enough to know.
Looking up, the sky was black and green. Green?
The rainiest year in twenty years, they said. In fifty years. In a century. After a while, I figure it’s never going to stop raining again. At least it’s a warm rain. I look out the window, and there you are, graceful in your night slip, an umbrella overhead to keep off the worst of it.
I lean out the window. “Come on, come on in, what’s up?” I keep my tone light, although it can’t be altogether good, you out there in your slip, no time to get dressed.
“The dam broke,” you say. “The town’s going to flood.”
You: Here are your ingredients. All-purpose flour. Butter out on the counter long enough to reach room temperature. Salt. Water. Ah, but the water should be a little cool. From the fridge, I think. Not the tap.
Here are your ingredients. An underwire bra. A forgotten shirt.
You: Oven turned on yet? Good. Yes, that’s right. 350 degrees. Mmm-hmm. Good. An earlier start to the preheating is better than a later start.
I’m loving the way your butt pokes out when you turn to check the glowing red numerals.
Me: Don’t see why it matters when you start the preheating…
Reader: You don’t seem to be especially alarmed by what the cards are showing you.
Querent: Should I be alarmed?
Reader: Some of my querents find the image disturbing.The sight of blood…
Querent: Painted blood.
Reader: A man naked — or nearly so — bound to a tree and shot with arrows.
Querent: Saint Sebastian.
Querent: The man’s Saint Sebastian. Patron saint of masochists. Didn’t you know that, Madame Skye?
Reader: Of course I knew that! But how did you…?
(The pause extends.)
(Various looks flash between querent and reader.)
Reader: Suddenly, the clouds are parting…
The wireless juice didn’t carry the same kick. I craved the wire.
This week, the metal shamble could pass for a tank as long as a robot wasn’t standing on top of it recharging. As I strode into range, it rolled into the camera shadow between a trio of less-than-scenic skyscrapers. I knew the place. The shamble often parked there to provide an illegal recharge.
A robot mostly looks within during the jolt. Thus the need for camera shadow. You’re not exactly scanning the horizon for cop tanks when you’re sucking the wire.
As the juice hit, I looked into…
My first wife was twenty-seven. My third one’s twenty-three. There’s probably a moral in there somewhere, but I don’t care to go looking for it.
“Kid,” I say.
Joshua looks up. He’s twenty-five and doesn’t particularly enjoy being called, “Kid,” but I’m the business owner and he’s the stocker, so he puts a big fake smile on his freckled face. “Yes, sir?”
“You locate that replacement processor for the Swampsons?”
“Sir? Shouldn’t the Swampsons get an entire systems upgrade? The manufacturer discontinued that processor in 2008.”
“The Swampsons don’t wanna pay for an upgrade.” I sigh real loud in that…
The hotel wasn’t really in Shinjuku. The big, beautiful room at the shockingly discounted price was suddenly explained. This was Shin-Okubo — Korea Town. No matter. Shinjuku was a stop or two down on the train. Minutes away. Not a problem.
Assuming I could make my way back to the station. …
I was ready to fight. To strike out with fists and flying kicks. You earned it, you know.
Spying on people is wrong, you say? Seriously? That’s what you’ve got for me? Spying is wrong?
You have got to be kidding me.
Know what I say to that? I say if you don’t wanna be watched, don’t go fucking strange in your girlfriend’s bed.
I didn’t know anything was up when I first walked in. Coming in the side door, I spotted the bottle of bourbon sitting out on the corner. My first clue there’s a party underway. I grabbed…
I keep having that nightmare where I miss my plane. Usually, it’s a plane. Once in a while, it’s a train.
“Excuse me? Is this where I get my ticket?”
A freckled-face man in his early twenties looked up from his phone. “I didn’t hear you come in.” His voice was an accusation.
Relax. This isn’t real. This is another stupid dream.
In dreams, people were always accusing me of random stupid crap. Not that “I didn’t hear you” was an accusation exactly. …
Even here in this room
If I pretend to be coy
If I act all bashful
If I turn when I fake a blush so you won’t see there’s no real flush…
If I come up behind you
If I wrap my arms around your waist
If I grind and wriggle against your high, hard backside…
If I squirm
If I rub my allegedly hard backside up and down
And I do mean with real force
And I do mean hard enough for you to find out
What hard is
I’m hard too though
Your worst nightmare, your most beautiful dream. Author of, “Bad in Black Boots,” available in ebook and paperback.