[There are a million words for it: the ‘calm after the storm’ mantra, the ‘greener grass’ saying, the ‘you just hit rock bottom’ syndrome.
I like to be able to reflect and know that times I thought were bad, were not so bad. And that better times can seep back into an unsettled life.]
If I look now, I see that something was already broken. But what?
My parents used to call me that. I’m in my house again laying on the floor. The mellow street lights setting the scene.
[I don’t think I want to answer the question of why her parents don’t call her that. The meaning might be confused, but I think the slow realization is better apreciated then my answer.
I imagine a single stage light in a dark room and Janie is sprawled against the wooden boards of that stage.]
Ronnie is outside the apartment door. He’s a skinny type of guy with a snaky, dragon head tattoo resting on his neck. He used to hack game servers for nerds, but now he uses those network skills to run TechnoLove’s private business. Think the bottled nanite filled vile I handed to the boy at the bar.
People find themselves more depressed these days. This is one of the things that helps.
[To be honest, I’m a plain apple juice lover myself. ]
“Janie I know what happened.”
[Does he? I wonder what my readers think happend. I mean I never did say that he died.]
Did he? Even I didn’t know what happened. Nobody knew. It wasn’t on the news. The boy had walked off the edge of the earth.
Red lights flash as police hovers glide past the window.
“I know you’re there.”
Our locators give us away I’ve got it set up on my wrist, a little ___ tattoo under my bracelet phone. Not a great idea I was told. A good way to loose a hand.
[It took me a while to know what tatoo she would have, to not make it super generic.]
For the record, I know Ronnie’s is on the base of his spine, between those dragon-spine ridges of bone I love to trail my fingers down and his smooth tan ass which I press my pale lips to.
[Oh, those little sexy things.]
“Ok.” Ronnie says. “Now you’re scaring me. Janie you hardly ever liked him.”
I hear rustling and scratching at he uncovers the panel lock on my door and fiddles with the buttons.
“You better not be high,” he tells me.
The old ceiling fan spins slowly above me, dust tumbling off like snow.
Gods my hands were so cold in the winter. Even when my mother had walked me down the street holding my little mittened hand. It’s impossible to do that now. They raised the weather shield in 4612.
[I too think of strange faded memories when i’m tired.]
Ronnie curses and speaks again.
“You better not be.”