The Living Room

Danica’s key turned in the lock. Hensley closed her book and swung her legs off the sofa. They exchanged a small secret smile, but didn’t say a word. One of the infrangible rules of the flat was that no one said a word until they were comfortably ensconced on the sofa with a glass of wine. Danica headed towards her bedroom to divest herself of her work clothes in favor of a pair of pajamas and Hensley headed towards the kitchen to retrieve a bottle of wine and two glasses.

In the outside world, Danica and Hensley were laconic to the point that most people deemed them either painfully shy or impossibly stuck up. Neither were true. Danica and Hensley said very little because they were too busy watching the world unfold around them. They followed the minor dramas of strangers in the street. They listened attentively to the joys and pains of their co-workers. They soaked up every bit of life they could and filed it away to share in the safety of the living room.

Hensley opened the bottle of wine and poured two glasses, starting to feel a tinge of giddiness. Danica reappeared in the living room and curled up in her corner of the large comfy (commodious) sofa, scooping up her glass of wine.

“How was your day?” Hensley asked taking a sip of wine.

Danica grinned at the familiar phrase with its own meaning in their shared argot. “Oh you know nothing too exciting, but I did see the most amazing thing on the Tube this morning.”

“Really?” Hensley leaned forward, all attention on Danica. “Tell me everything and then I have the most incredible story for you.”

Books and Cheese

The little bat (chiropteran) living in the dusty attic above Monsieur Petit’s Librairie could not say how she’d come to be in the attic. It was the only home she’d ever known. She understood there were others like her, she had seen pictures in Monsieur’s natural history books, but she had no desire to fly out into the night to find her long lost kin.

Cut off (deracinate) from her wild (autochthonous) nature, the little bat instead adopted the ways of Monsieur Petit. As a commendable (palmary) bouquiniste and a turophile, Monsieur had inspired in her a love of books and cheese. From her earliest memories, she’d survived on whatever bits of cheese and the written word she could spirit away. Thankfully, Monsieur was generous and unguarded with both and the little bat never wanted for either.

The old book seller had no idea that the little bat lived in his attic or that she shared his passions, but they lived in a quiet companionship that suited them both.

Hateful Company

I exist in a penniless (impecunious) state. I’ve worked and slaved, plotted and schemed, scrimped and saved, but wealth and security continue to elude me.

This lack has made me querulous and caustic (splenetic). I’ve failed to accumulate (collimate) friends and even my family, those who are required to love me, have withdrawn from my company. They are not to blame for their neglect; I am an utterly unpleasant individual.

As poor and hateful as I am, I had given up finding one to complement my horrendous disposition; yet here you sit. A life full of hardships has reduced (decot) you into a bitter, rancorous specimen who the world avoids. In a word, you are my equal. I’m uncertain whether I should adore you or abhor you, but I’m grateful to have found you. We may be loathsome, but at least we’re no longer alone.

The Replica

I select the key from my heavy key-ring and unlock the door. The playroom is a mess, toys thrown passim, yet there is no sign of my charge. Pulling the door closed behind me, I make my way towards her favorite hiding spot.

As I suspected, a pale paisley sheet has been suspended between a pair of chairs and a bookshelf to create a slapdash tent. I lift a corner of the sheet and peer in. “Hello, C33. Would you like to come out to play?”

She shakes her head. “No thank you, Miss Teacher. I do not feel like playing today.”

Adjusting my skirts, I kneel in the opening of the tent. “And why is that, C33?”

“I’m lonely.”

My heart breaks for the little anomaly. Out of six batches of practically identical replicas, Subject C33 is the sole survivor.

I force a smile and pat her on the shoulder. “I know you are my dear, but you will have a bumper crop (foison) of new playmates very soon.”

I follow C33’s gaze at it sweeps over the lorn playroom. For months now, the little anomaly has been forced to witness mirror images of herself, healthy and hearty, wither and die in a matter of days. My employer continues to reassure the exoteric investors that this is a minor setback caused by a tainted sample, but everyone intimately connected with the project knows better. In truth, all the boffins working on the Replica Venture have studied and scrutinized every aspect of the the failing replicas and are still no closer to an answer. As the lead on Replica Instruction and Domestication, I continue to cadge for more and more resources, financial and human, to try to solve the conundrum.

My superiors applaud my diligence and unwavering loyalty to the project and while I desire to see the Replica Venture succeed, I also longed to give C33 a sustainable playfellow. She lacks a human understanding of death, but she still mourns their loss, misses their presence in the dorms and the playroom.

“Will they last longer than the others, Miss Teacher?” C33 asks in a pained whisper, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

Unable to ignore her sorrow, I violate my own dictum and gather my charge into my lap. She clings to me as I rock her and murmur over and over again, “I certainly hope so, my dear. I certainly hope so.”

Safe

Steve woke with a start, alert and wary. He searched the room for signs of intrusion, but it was all clear. Collapsing back on his pillow, he glanced at the clock – 3:47 a.m. He stared up at the ceiling and took a couple of deep breaths, but he couldn’t shake the worry that had settled in the pit of his stomach. After years on the battlefield, he’d learned not to ignore his gut. Steve pulled back the covers and climbed out of bed. Even if it was nothing, doing a quick check couldn’t hurt.

He stepped into the hallway, listening for any disruption in the usual nighttime sounds of the apartment. Everything appeared normal. He ducked into the dark unoccupied bathroom before making his way down the hallway towards Bucky’s room. Enclosed spaces still unnerved the ex-assassin, so he usually kept the door ajar, but tonight the door was flung open and the bed was empty. Steve’s heart raced. Between the nightmares, the lapses in memory, and the periodic triggers, Bucky out of bed was never a good sign.

Steve tip toed towards the living room and kitchen, praying that Bucky was still in the apartment. He slipped into the living room and let out the breath he’d been holding. Bucky sat at the table, his forehead resting against the heels of hands. Not wanting to startle him, Steve took a heavy step into the kitchen, the floorboards creaking under his weight. Bucky jumped at the sound and sat up, poised to attack.

Seeing his panic, Steve held out a hand. “It’s alright. You’re safe, I promise.”

He stared up at Steve, calculating whether or not he was a threat. His look was hard, but his eyes weren’t the raw, furious eyes of the Winter Soldier. Steve longed to say something, anything, to reassure Bucky that he was safe, that he would never do anything to hurt him, but he had to let Bucky come to that conclusion for himself. He’d pushed too hard on other nights like this and it always ended in cuts, bruises, and broken furniture.

After two or three tense, silent minutes, Bucky slumped back into the chair, all the fight going out of him. He stared down at his hands, flesh and metal. “I can’t remember anything,” he admitted, in a rough whisper. He looked up at Steve again, dazed and distressed. “Who am I?”

Steve took a deep breath to calm the rising fury. Even now, when Hydra no longer had control over him, the damage they’d caused continue to strip (burgle) him of his mind and dissolve (abrogate) his memories. No matter how many Hydra bases he destroyed or how many of their goons he killed or imprisoned, they would still need to pay for what they’d done to Bucky.

Moving slowly so he didn’t spook him, Steve pulled out the chair next to Bucky and sat down. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes, but everyone calls you Bucky. You’ve had a hard life, which I can tell you all about if you want.” Tentatively, he reached out and put a gentle hand on Bucky’s knee. “But, all that matters right now is that you’re safe and I’m here to take care of you.”

Bucky nodded.“I have lots of questions,” he managed to give Steve a hint of a smile, “but let’s start with your name.”

It broke Steve’s heart, but he would willingly (lief) take on the Sisyphean task of reminding Bucky who he was if it meant keeping him at his side. “Steve Rogers, but you have an annoying habit of calling me Stevie.”

Note: Marvel owns the characters Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes. They are the creation of  Joe Simon and Jack Kirby.

Chez Sibyla

Cocktail in hand, I found an empty table at the edge of the dance floor and after a fortifying drink, I looked around Chez Sibyla.

The nightclub had not change in the ten years that had passed since I last stepped foot in it. The patrons had changed, gotten older, but Chez Sibyla remained untouched by time. Ten years later, it was the same smoky, dimly lit room where Zeke and I had celebrated our ill-advised nuptials. Drunk on love and champagne, we’d danced across that floor pressed impossibly close together, his hand low on my waist, his breath tickling my neck. Later we’d stumbled back to our dingy rooms and made clumsy unhurried love until the sun had risen over Paris.

That night with Zeke at Chez Sibyla, our first night together as husband and wife, had been near perfect. Everything after that had been pure and utter shit.

Within days of our marriage, we’d started to drift apart, to lose interest in one another. At first we’d fought and flirted, later we would lie and cheat, and before long we were done. There had been no sniveling, no grand displays of devotion, no pleading or bargaining. We’d simply signed the necessary paperwork and absconded away from Paris.

Now ten years since that perfect night of love and possibility, I longed to see Chez Sibyla again. I needed to remember the girl I’d once been and the happiness I’d been capable of.

I glanced the room once more and the world stalled when my gaze landed on the man slipping through the door. Zeke. He nodded to the doorman and turned to smile at me, as if we’d planned this rendezvous. I expected shock and dread at his sudden appearance, but instead I felt unharried, serene even. When I’d come here tonight, I realized, I’d expected him to turn up.

As if he owned the place, Zeke waved to the bartender as he made his way towards me. He navigated his way across the crowded room never taking his eyes off me, his movements vulpine, sexy, and dangerous. I smirked, proud that this man had once been mine. For all my youthful stupidity, I’d possessed excellent taste in men.

“Hello, Alete.”

“Zeke.” I replied holding out my hand to him. He took it and placed a gentle kiss on my knuckles .

He gestured to the empty chair across from me. “May I?”

I nodded and he sat down as the waitress appeared with his drink.

I lounged back in my chair and studied him in the yellow candlelight. He’d aged well and still had that glint of mischief in his eyes. “I thought we’d agreed to stay in antipode parts of the world, Zeke?”

“We did, but I’ve always been recusant,” he sipped his whiskey languidly, his expression mellow. “Besides, Alete, isn’t this the bimillenary of our disastrous decision to marry?”

I tilted my head to one side, amused. “I don’t think it’s been quite two thousand years.”

He shrugged. “I may have took some auctorial liberties with our story.”

“Didn’t you always?” And he had. As we’d been drinking and dancing, fucking and fighting our way through that calamitous affair, he’d rewritten the story. In his telling, it had pitched back and forth between a splendid romance and a tawdry fling. I had been the bane of existence or the woman of his dreams, depending on how it suited him. I’d love him and hated him for his constant revisions: loved him when he created a fairy tale and hated him when we became a tragedy.

“How do you tell our story now, Zeke?”

“It varies, but most days it’s pretty nostalgic.” A grin tugged at his mouth. “Young lovers in Paris caught up in the whimsy of the city. We were beautiful, fearless, and naive. We married too young and grew apart as we lost our innocence.”

I pursed my lips, fighting a smile. “Sounds like a nice story.”

“And what do you know, Alete,” he kidded, reaching across the table to take my hand, “it’s almost the truth.”

“Time has it’s way of warping the truth,” I sighed and squeezed his hand affectionately, “but, that’s mostly how I remember it.”

Zeke grinned and leaned across the table. “How about I order us a bottle of champagne? For old times sake?”

I stared at the man who had once been my husband and, for the moment, I felt a bit like the girl he’d married. “Oh, what the hell. That sounds marvelous, Zeke.”

Life by the Sword

Jada slipped the plastron over her thin black t-shirt and strapped it on with ease. She wouldn’t need it practicing alone in the studio, but the fit of it changed her movements, shifted her balance. The plastron in place, she pulled on her snug white jacket. Even after all these months, it felt familiar and oddly comfortable. She glanced down at the mask sitting in the bottom of her bag, debating, then quickly tugged it on. It made her feel ridiculous, but she longed to wear the full kit, to feel whole again.

Wearing her fencing gear again, Jada could almost pretend the accident had never happened. Her bones had not been shattered. There hadn’t been weeks spent immobile in a hospital bed. She hadn’t endured months of painful physical therapy learning to walk again. She’d simply driven home from the tournament and had gone on with her life. But, the accident had happened and although life had mostly gone back to normal, Jada had yet to pick up a sword. Her mother had insisted (exhort) that she didn’t have to fence again if she didn’t want to, but for Jada the choice obvious (transpicuous): she would never feel like herself again, not without a blade in her hand.

She walked over to rack of weapons and selected a spinous foil at random. Testing the weight of it in her hand, Jada stood at the edge of the mat. Her heart hammered in her ears. She forced herself to take a deep breath and as she let it out, she took step forward. Muscle memory took over and without a thought she advanced across the mat with a compound-riposte

At the other end of the mat, Jada held the final position of the compound-riposte, a wide lunge, and stared at the long blade in her hand. Her body had lost much of its legerity. The moves, drilled (inculcate) into her by years of practice, now made her bones and muscles twinge and ache. Even that short pass had left her feeling drained and shaky, but she refused to quit. This is who she was and she wouldn’t let the accident take that away from her.

Jada stood tall, turned, raised her foil, and prepared for another attack.

Speed Dating

Hank glanced around the room, with its overabundance of faded Chinoserie, and groaned. No one found love and lasting happiness in a shabby faux Chinese restaurant.

“Troy, why did I let you talk me into this?”

“You need to meet women,” he gestured at the crowd of meandering singles, “real offline (retronym) women, and you refuse to talk to anyone when we go to the bars.”

“But, speed dating?”

Troy clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t knock it until you try it, Hank. You never know. You might meet the woman of your dreams tonight.”

As if summoned by Troy’s words, a pretty dark haired woman in a lavender dress slipped through the crowd and made her way towards a table covered with name tags. She moved with an understated confidence that made her instantly alluring and mysterious. Hank longed to talk to her, but knew he would never approach a woman like that. He mentally kicked himself for his shyness and then thrill whipped up his spine. He would talk to her tonight. The bell would ring and he would sit down at a table with her for five minutes she’d be all his. Maybe this speed dating thing had its virtues.

“Or maybe I’ll meet the woman of my dreams,” Troy muttered, hoicking him towards the name tag table eyes on the woman in the lavender dress.

Hank’s heart sunk as he followed after him. When given the choice, women usually preferred laid-back outdoorsy Troy and tonight would be a zero-sum game. Any woman that chose Troy would be one less woman who might go out with him.

Troy sidled up next to the woman in the lavender dress. Hank fell in beside him and took his time filling in his name tag, trying to not watch Troy flirt with the woman in the lavender dress.

Troy slapped on his name tag and held out his hand to her. “Hi, I’m Troy.”

The woman in the lavender dress smoothed her name tag on and shook his hand. “Sadie.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Sadie,” he gave her a toothy grin. “And I must say that I’m looking forward to our date later.”

Sadie chuckled. “Likewise.” She stepped away from the table. “I guess I’ll talk to you later.”

Troy waited until she was out of earshot and then turned to Hank. “I am so getting her number.”

“Sure you will,” Hank agreed, forcing a smile. “Just remember to leave a few bachelorettes for me.”

As Troy opened his mouth to reply, the bell rang and two women holding clipboards called out a ‘Hello and Welcome’ silencing the room. They introduced themselves and explained out the next hour or so would commence. Hank listened with disinterest – the evening already felt like a lost cause. Just like with Sadie, he would go around talking to these women tonight knowing deep down that they would rather go home with a guy like Troy. At least, he wouldn’t have to see Troy leave with one of them on his arm. That was one good thing about speed dating.

The women with the clipboards rang the bell and everyone took their first position. Hank glanced around the room as he sat down and his heart sank when he realized Sadie would be the twelfth and final woman he talked to.

Putting the woman in the lavender dress out of his mind, he smiled at the blond woman across from him and held out his hand. “Hi. I’m Hank.”

Much to his surprise the speed dates weren’t so bad. He and his date would talk about what did they do for a living, where they grew up, what kind of music/movies/book they liked. And before it could become awkward and silent the bell would ring, he’d move on to the next woman, and have the same conversation all over again. The hour flew by and before he was ready for it, Hank was sitting down across from the woman in the lavender dress.

She smiled at him and held out her hand. “You must be Hank.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. “How did -” he began and stopped when he remembered his name tag. He laughed. “And you must be Sadie.”

She shrugged. “Unless the name tag is a lie. So, Hank, how’s your evening going? Enjoying the speed dating?”

Her straightforwardness made Hank feel oddly at ease. “It’s weird,” he admitted. “I’ve had almost identical conversations with eleven strangers, but at least everyone seems nice.”

“They do,” Sadie agreed, “but, everyone dissembles at these things, puts their sexiest foot forward and all that. It’s a nice way to meet people, but you don’t really get to know anyone.”

“I guess that’s what second, third, and fourth dates are for,” he said, surprised at his own boldness. “If you don’t like speed dating, why did you sign up?”

Sadie rolled her eyes. “My friends signed me up. They said I needed to put myself out there or risk dying alone with my Netflix account.”

“Aren’t friends grand?” Hank joked with a shake of his head. “My friend drug me here because he said he was sick of watching me stand at the bar by myself and not talk to anyone.”

“I think I met him earlier. Troy? Nice guy,” she leaned forward and lowered her voice, “but between you and me, he’s not my type.”

Hank tried to keep his face neutral. “Oh? So what is your type?”

“I prefer the shy, bookish types. We tend to have more in common.” She gave him a knowing look “Unfortunately, those kinds of guys never come up to you in bars.”

Hank swallowed and toyed with the fringed (fimbriated) tablecloth. “No, we don’t. Thank goodness of speed dating then.”

“Definitely.” Sadie smiled, a slight blush blooming on her cheeks. “So, I know I’m not supposed to tell you this, but I’m planning on checking your name on the form.”

Hank’s heart skipped a beat. “That’s excellent because I’ve learned almost nothing about you and I would like to. Plus, if I’m honest, I planned checking your name too.”

The bell rang, signaling the end of their date. Sadie held out her hand. “I guess I’ll be talking to you soon, Hank.”

Hank took her hand in his. “I’m looking forward to it, Sadie.”

Underground

Yve took one final drag on her cigarette and stomped it out, never taking her eyes off the street. She glanced at her watch, barely visible in the darkness of the alley.

“Late,” she muttered, deciding to give him three more minutes.

Another minute passed before a broad shoulder figure slipped into the alley. Even obscured by shadow, Rob Kane was unmistakable. He approached her slowly, casting a nervous glance over his shoulder.

He stopped a few feet from her and crossed his arms across his chest. “I got your message.”

“So I see,” she replied in a low voice. “I’m a little surprised you came.”

“I almost didn’t,” Kane admitted, biting his lip. “But, I’m not naive.”

Yve took a step forward. “You’ve see the depravity that is taking control of the state.” For all their differences, she respected Kane and would not belittle him with lies. “The bright-line law you served has fallen victim to humanity’s corruption and greed. And now the foursquare attitude that made you a hero has become a liability. In the state’s eyes, you are now a white elephant they can no longer afford to maintain.”

Kane nodded. “What will they do to me?”

He knew the answer, he’d seen it before, but he needed to hear it. “The powers that be will come at you with every roorback they can dream up. Their accusations will be ruinous and outlandish, with just the right amount of truth to make them credible. One lie at a time they will scarify you until they have disfigured you, your efforts, and everything you stand for.”

“Like we did to you.” It wasn’t a question; it was an apology. “What options do I have?”

“You go underground, join the resistance, before they can detain you.” Yve pulled out another cigarette and lit it. “You survive and come at them any way you can.”

A pained expression furrowed his brow. “My family?”

Yve sighed. She’d read Kane’s file. He had a lover, a man he’d known since he was a boy, and a younger sister he’d been taking care of since their parents had died over a decade ago. His love of the state paled in comparison to his love for them.

“In the face of the lies,” she sucked in a lungful of smoke and blew it out, “your loved ones will have two choices: either they can swallow the lies or they will be lashed together and paraded through the streets, like a coffle of traitors and sympathizers.”

Kane grimaced and she read the question in his face.

“If you’re going to run, you’ve got to do it now and you’ve got to do it alone.”

A long silence stretched between them and in it Yve could feel Kane wrestling with himself. She’d stood where he was standing and longed to offer him another choice, but it didn’t exist. There were two options and both of them were terrible.

“Why are you helping me?” he asked, his voice rough. “I’ve done nothing but hunt you down and try to destroy everything you’ve built.”

Yve shrugged. “I’ve never held it against you. We’re just on opposite sides of this thing. You’re not a villain like the rest of them.”

Kane shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “How do we do this?”

The defeat in his voice made Yve’s heart ache. In less than a minute he’d decided to sacrifice everything without guarantee it would make a difference. She place a firm hand on his elbow.“There’s a safe house not far from here. We’ll lay low there for the night.”

Kane fell into step next to her. “Thank you for your help, Yve.”

She squeezed his elbow. “You can thank me later. Right now we have to move.”

The Chase and the Choice

My pace steady and my heart racing, I approached the gallery at the end of the hall. A woman in a green coat sat gazing up at an immense impressionist painting. I kept my eyes focused intently on her, expecting her to vanish at any moment.

I’d come close to catching her before. For three years she’d danced across the map, caught up in some tarantism of her own creation. I’d pursued her through the Italian countryside in a sleek sports car; across the North Sea on a packed ferry; on a bicycle over the cobblestone streets of Amsterdam; and once even on the back of a camel somewhere near Cairo. For three years we’d been competing in a gymkhana for two and this is the closest I’d come to catching her.

I stepped through the threshold of the gallery and still the woman in the green coat sat examining the painting. I took another step towards her and cleared my throat. “Babette?”

“Hello, little sister.” She didn’t turn around, but I could hear the smile in her voice. “You’ve been extremely sedulous in your pursuit. You’re to be commended.”

My breath caught in my throat and my eyes teemed (pullulate) with tears. “Why, Babette?” I choked out. “Why did you run away? Mother died and a week later you split (bifurcate) the family fortune in two and ran off, leaving me to fend for myself.”

Babette turned over her shoulder and patted the spot next to her on the bench. “Come sit, Tallula, and I’ll explain everything.”

I held my ground, not wanting to give into her request.

She sighed and her face softened. “I know you’re angry, but please let me explain. I promise I didn’t do this just to be unregenerate.”

I seethed, but my curiosity won out. Refusing to meet her eyes, I stepped around the bench and sat down. We sat in the quiet of the gallery, side by side, staring up at the painting. In the lull, I let myself relish in having my sister by my side once again. I hated her for what she’d put me through, I’d missed her.

“From the moment we were born,” Babette began, eyes on the painting, “she was grooming us to be carbon copies of her. When she was gone, we would move into the family home, lunch at her table at the club, attend the same society parties she had, we would marry men just like Daddy. In a word, we would carry on her life and legacy once she was gone.”

I swallowed. It was true; we both knew it. Even from my earliest memories Mother had been crystal clear in her expectations for our lives.

“When she got sick,” she continued, “I knew we both had a choice to make. Either we could live the lives she’d plotted out for us or we could live our own lives.”

“You made your choice,” I muttered, swallowing past the lump in throat.

“Yes, Talulla, I did.” She turned to face me. “But, I couldn’t -” she stopped, uncertain. “In the end you didn’t have a choice. Mother had manipulated and indoctrinated you to the point that you no longer knew who you were or what you wanted.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Babette held up her hand. “You’d stopped arguing with her years ago, stopped rebelling before you’d even had a chance to rebel.” She grabbed my hand in both of hers. “You were going to choose to become Mother’s copy. I couldn’t let that happen without you experiencing all the world had to offer first.”

The meaning of her words struck me like a blow. Memories of the past three years flood my mind. Mind boggling sites, chatting with strangers over exotic foods, dancing late into the morning, the beautiful men I’d taken back to my ever changing hotel rooms. I’d lived more life in the past three years than I had in the decades that had preceded them. “You did this for me.”

“Yes, Talulla.” She smiled wickedly. “Well mostly for you. I did manage to have a bit of fun myself.” Her face grew serious. She dropped my hands and reached into the bag at her feet. “And now that you’ve had the chance to live a little,” she handed me a thick heavy envelope, “you can make an informed decision about what kind of life you want.”

I stared down at the envelope my hands. This is why I’d chased Babette across the globe.
Without opening it, I knew what it contained. Keys to the safety deposit box, deeds, Mother’s last will and testament: everything I needed to get back to the life Mother had planned for me.

My decision was clear. I slipped the envelope into my bag and turned to Babette. “I saw a cute little place around the corner. How about we go grab a bite and a drink? I’m dying to hear about your travels.”

A wide grin bloomed on Babette’s face. “Not nearly as much I’m dying to hear about yours, little sister.”