Playing Games

She is tired. The train is almost empty; the work rush dissipated hours ago. Occasionally the guards swagger through – unspeaking, imposing. Her eyes feel grainy, fizzy, heavy, sore. The city is a shadow filled with faint motes of light, slipping past her listless view.

~

He’d promised to pick her up. So, she hadn’t brought her runners today. She’s barefoot now, carrying her heels in her hand. She’d taken them off as soon as she got on the train, the carpeted floor feeling luxuriant under her sore feet. She doesn’t see a soul for the whole hour-long trip, not a single solemn security guard or obnoxiously drunk teenager. Her stop is second-to-last, so she is always alone when she gets off. She uses her phone as a torch, a radar for the smashed bottles littering the station stairwells. The bitumen is cold, and glitters also. She imagines it ripping into her soft soles, cutting strips of her pale skin, imagines leaving a trail of bloody footprints. She wonders what he would say, or if he would even notice.

The road doesn’t cut her feet, only her expensive stockings.

 

His car isn’t in the driveway. The house is dark, no windows lit like eyes to greet her. She trips on the back stairs. It hurts, but she’s too tired to swear. The small torch on her keychain is dim from overuse, but eventually she finds the lock. She doesn’t turn on the lights. The shadows spill from dark doorways into the hall, crowding her small light as she walks through the house. She remembers when she was little, the summer storms that would flash and crash and blow down powerlines. She’d chase her sister through the dark and heat baked beans on their tiny camp stove, eating them with a teaspoon straight from the can. They’d find all the tea-lights and tapers and light them up, until candles blanketed every surface and the air was a shifting sea of honey. They’d tell stories wrapped in blankets while the wicks were drowned in wax, until dawn, until sleep.  But tonight is different. No squeals of laughter, no smiling faces suffused with warm candlelight. Only dark. She tosses her shoes at the wall, the sound isn’t as satisfying as she expected. In the kitchen, the Scrabble board is still on the table – still a sprawling mess of used words. No sheet of paper, not any more. Too many points scored, on both sides. They keep it all in their heads. She sits down and puts her face in her hands.

 

She wakes to the purr of his car pulling into the curb, the crunch of his feet on the gravel. The gate opens and shuts with a creak, and in her mind she can see the paint flaking away from the rust like a scab. She doesn’t get up to greet him. He fumbles with his key, he never used the torch that she gave him, the one engraved with their names. The front door screams into the silence, swollen wood wearing a groove in the floor that neither of them had the time to smooth over. Clattering, briefcase to the floor, keys in the bowl by the door. Running water splashed and smoothed over stubble. The rooms he visits echo his presence, but he moves without the thud of heavy heels. He has kicked off his shoes; she will pick them up later. His silhouette fills the doorway – solid, but frayed around the edges. . Long fingers roll sleeves to elbows. The light is actinic white, and it blinds her when he flicks it on. He recoils at the sight of her.

“Fuck! – me. Jesus Christ, you scared the hell out of me. Why are you sitting here in the dark?”

“You’re back.” She doesn’t look at him.

“Yeah.”

“You were going to pick me up. I had to take the train.” She sweeps the words from the game board in front of her and mixes the tiles in the bag, leaving the last word as a beginning. PROMISE

“Yeah, sorry. Meetings and stuff went a bit long. You know how it is. Anyway, I texted you about it, so no harm done, right?”

“Long day, then.” She lines up the tiles on her rack. LATE.
She doesn’t play them.

 “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Nothing happened.”

“Not a damn thing.” She places the letters on the board slowly, deliberately – each one harshly delineating another portion of silence. LIAR.

He looks around the kitchen – the cold stove, dishes in the sink. He drops his pieces to the board, making a mess as he pushes them into place. HUNGRY

“That Sally chick called again, asking about you.” MISTRESS

“Don’t talk like that.” COLLEAGUE

“Talk like what?” HUSSY

“You know.” NO

“Oh? Does it bother you? When I call her a chick?” SLUT

“Well, you know, it’s unbecoming.” STOP

“Really? Unbecoming. Well, I wouldn’t want to seem unbecoming, would I? I wouldn’t want to be unseemly.” CHEATER

“Why are you doing this?”

“She asked what kind of massages you like.”

“Well, there’s a work retreat next weekend, at a resort.” PARANOID

“Next weekend? I thought we were going to see The Merchant of Venice?” CHEATER

“Yeah, sorry. I was going to tell you sooner. Gonna to have to cancel.” STUPID

“Again.” DICK

“I said I was sorry.”  BITCH

“Yeah.” FUCKER

CUNT

 

Clattering, the tiles spray across the room. She is trembling, holding to the table with white knuckles. She doesn’t meet his eyes, he doesn’t see the tears in hers. She stands up, starts gathering up the tiny pieces.

“I’m sick of this game.” Her voice is a whisper.

“So am I.” He’s looking at her, but not seeing.

“Why do we keep playing?”

“Because it’s all that we have.”

 

~

 

He’s holding his jacket in his hand. The short walk to his car doesn’t justify putting it on despite the cold. The turned key in the ignition makes the heater blast to life – he flinches, sending a twinge of pain through taut neck and shoulders. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he drives, reaches the intersection. To get home, he has to take a right. It’s the quickest way home from here. He turns left instead.

 

Twenty minutes further in the suburbs, twenty minutes more alone. Her driveway is stone instead of his gravel, he can walk up it in blessed silence. No dogs, no children, no traffic. He takes a deep breath through his nose. She opens the door to his knock, dressed only in a surprised smile. She doesn’t speak, just takes him in her arms, and in her bed. She teases him at first, with fingernails and teeth – stroking and nibbling and sighing into his ear. He is in no mood for foreplay. She has her back to him as they fuck. Lost in her own rushing fantasies, she does not see him shaking. His fingers dig into plush white hips, his anger is mistaken for urgency. Her babble breaks to crescendo as she does – once, twice. A headache gnaws the base of his skull. He groans, more out of politeness than any real satisfaction, and flops to the bed in relief. She sighs, stretching luxuriantly, twining arms and legs around him.

“I didn’t expect you.”

He says nothing.

“I mean, of course I hoped, but I hope you know I didn’t want to pressure you or –”

He pulls on his clothes without meeting her eyes.

“You don’t have to go.”

A plea he doesn’t answer. His back is turned to her as he leaves, so he doesn’t see her trembling.

 

His shoes crunch on the gravel drive. The house is dark, but he’s used to that. She doesn’t turn the lights on anymore, just sits there in the dark – waiting. He doesn’t understand it. The front door squeals open, swollen wood digging a groove in the floor. He slips his shoes off in the hall, and walks in bare feet. The cold water is a shock across his face, stubble rough against his fingertips. When did he stop shaving? Coming home late every day, when did that start? He can’t see himself in the mirror. He doesn’t turn the light on. Rolling up his sleeves, he walks into the kitchen, with its cold stove and dirty dishes. She’s not there. Nor in the bedroom, the lounge. He looks for a note, for any sign of passage. Her shoes are gone, and that’s it. He sits down at the table, puts his face in his hands.

 

He wakes to a dry mouth and a wet cheek, harsh tiles pressing corners into his face. He staggers around the house, searching – searching for a single sign of her. She doesn’t pick up her phone. Cold dawn light washes through the windows, riming everything with ice. The board catches his eyes as he storms through the kitchen. Only one word left, the last one she used.

SORRY

Seasons

Summer was golden. That’s how I remember it. Concrete buildings would all wash yellow with the sun’s rays, radiating heat that shimmered in the air. The grass in the fields dried into straw and cracked to pieces in the occasional welcome breeze. Ties were loosened, jerseys and blazers once more put into storage, ushering in the shorts and skirts that we all so adored. Brown hair was bleached blonde at the tips, and pale skin was burned raw then simmered into honey. Those were my summers. 

 

Dawn broke at some ungodly hour, sending light lancing through the window onto my face. I never could sleep after the sun came up. The roosters had just hit their stride, screaming their dominance to the high hills, but otherwise the house was quiet. I opened the screen and stood on the veranda, watching dew sparkle in the paddocks. I made breakfast, had a shower, put on my uniform. Everything done in the same sequence, day after day. Muscle memory, by this point. I could have slept through it all – leaving the house, dodging past kangaroos dawn the long winding driveway, walking past farm after sprawling farm until reaching that old dilapidated bus stop. All of the kids from the area caught the bus here, the last stop for the only bus to go so far out. It had a blue stripe.

 

The bus spat me out at the usual place, the short enclosed boulevard leading to the school gates. Even though it was summer, the air was still cold enough to raise goosebumps on my skin. I trailed my hand along the split log fence. My friend was waiting at the gate for me, as always, and we would sit beneath the tree for the half-hour before the bell rang. All of this was normal, comfortable. Except for her.

 

My friend said that she’d just come from the city, and that she was in the same classes as me. I was to show her around, show her the ropes. I made a stupid joke, and she smiled. She was wearing striped socks and had black hair. She was like nothing I’d ever seen. Her eyes were dark and burning and followed me everywhere, along with her too-red smile. She sat next to me when classes began, her shoulder brushing mine. I thought it was accidental, but only for the first few times.

 

At lunch she sat too close to me, pressing against my side. Her skin was cool but I felt altogether too warm, even in the shade. I could smell her, sweet and spicy at the same time, and it made me dizzy. The bell clattered at us to return to our books, our bodies standing from sheer reflex, but not hers. She pulled me down into the grass and pinned me with her eyes. My friends shot me knowing looks as they walked away, but I didn’t know what they meant. She wove clover through my hair and spoke to me in another language, and I stayed just to hear her voice. She plucked a hair from my head, wrapped it around her little finger. It looked darker against her white skin.

 

We walked along the sheer edge of the grounds, and she marvelled at the greenery.
So beautiful, she said. So full of life. It’s as if they go on and on and on. Like you could walk in and be lost to the world forever.
It’s just trees and grass, nothing special. I mean, just past there it’s an old folks home, and then a highway, then a bed’n’breakfast.  It’s pretty boring.
Boring? All I’ve ever seen is concrete and black tar, concrete and tar wherever you look. Not a breath of life anywhere to be found. Every day you’re surrounded by lushness and life, and you call it boring! I’m sorry, I didn’t know. She walked away, and I felt a hole were she’d been. I was pulled after her, trailing apologetically until I was forgiven.  As the sun burned low in the sky I turned towards the blue-striped bus and home. She walked beside me, silent, a question in her eyes that I couldn’t understand. I only knew that I had to go home. She bit her lip, and I couldn’t breathe. She kissed me in front of the school gates as the bell rang to send us home. I burned for her all night.

 

Summer bled to a pale autumn, and not much changed. Some trees lost their leaves, some their bark, but not many. Mostly just the days got shorter, the nights longer and colder. Her hand was cool in mine as she led me away from the classroom again and again. She would sing to me and draw me pictures, whilst the teachers marked me absent and my homework lay undone. She would brush against me casually, a hand or a hip. Her fingers were long and delicate, and I longed to lace them through mine. Each day as we lay under that tree I would try to kiss her again, but she would slip away with her smile on her lips, eyes invitation and challenge all at once. I chased her, but I was always one step behind.

 

The days were short in winter. I would wake up late to a clamouring household, and skip breakfast to run to the bus. The jackets and jumpers came back out, and I would take an extra in case she forgot hers. She never did. One day, she wasn’t at the gate. I thought she was absent, until I saw her through a classroom window, stained fingers placing a grass crown on another’s head. I tasted jealousy, hot and sour like bile on the tongue. I watched as she straddled him and her hair fanned out into a curtain that hid her from view. This time I understood. The next day she was waiting at the gates. 

 

I found a new routine, that winter. Some weeks I would be her creature. I would chase her, give her gifts, fulfil her every wish and whim, or taste bitter shame at my failings. I revelled in her laughter, and in the heat that fired my blood when she would touch me.  Others, I would fret and fume as her gaze favoured another. I vowed time and time again to make an end of it, to find someone else, to give up on her. I never did, because every morning that she waited at the gate was another chance to be with her, this wild mercurial creature. One night, my friend confessed to sleeping with her. I slapped him on the back, and then punched him in the face. It hurt my hand. He’d never even really talked to her. I slit my wrists that night, making a ladder of red that climbed my arm. I bled for a while, just to try it, then bound them up tight. I wore a jacket for weeks after that, and didn’t tell anyone, but I didn’t expect the scars. 

 

In spring, she was waiting for me at the gates.

 

 

Lost and Found

Back then, I was lost. I didn't know what I was doing, didn't know what I was looking for. Hell, I probably didn't even know that I was looking. I was in a pretty bad way, I can tell you. But then... well. Then I found Her. Or, perhaps She found me.

I was in Vegas at the time, I think. Maybe it was LA, I don't know. I was always moving, and most days I woke up not knowing what city I was in, let alone what state. I would stumble from one party to the next, flirting with everyone in sight and getting blackout drunk, waking up the next day in some stranger's bed. The hangovers were terrible, so I smoked or shot up until they went away, then got dolled up again to hitch a ride to the next party. Looking back, with the amount of strange cars and beds that I was hopping into, I’m surprised I wasn’t kidnapped or killed. There are only a couple things I remember with any clarity, all the rest is a blur. Things like standing on the beach in a stupid grass skirt, the smell of bile filling my nose. Some jerkwad, I didn’t even know his name, had puked down my top while he was perving on me, and I could feel the warmth oozing down my ribs. Or like sleeping with a lawyer in his penthouse apartment. He was crying the next morning, telling some woman how much he loved her and how sorry he was. There was a picture by the bed of him and a little girl. I hadn’t noticed the wedding ring, but if I had I wonder if I would have done anything different. I remember seeing myself in a mirror – at the hollows beneath my eyes, my cracked lips. I could feel my ribs sticking out and the needle tracks on my thighs, and I hated it. I looked at myself and all I could feel was this overwhelming hatred and disgust. I tried so hard to drown that memory.

The point is, I don't know where I was when it happened, which is funny, because I remember everything else about that night with such clarity. It would have been around 2am, because it was still dark and all the parties were in full swing. I'd left whatever shithole I'd been trying to pick up in because of a splitting headache, probably because I hadn't managed to bum any smokes or booze from anyone. Despite not having anything to drink my head was spinning, and nausea would come over me in waves. My stomach was cramping like a bitch, but maybe that was 'cause I hadn't eaten in two days. I started stumbling down this skanky little alley, the kind of place you wouldn't want to walk in, even in daylight. So I'm tripping over garbage and trying not to throw up, and as if that's not enough it started pissing down with rain. So I'm swearing and shivering and generally feeling sorry for myself, when I hear someone say my name. 

"Genevieve." Just like that. Not 'Gen', not 'Vivi or 'slut', but Genevieve. I hadn't heard someone say my name like that in a long time. I turn around and there's this tiny blonde girl behind me, peeking out from some huge iron doorway. In the haze of the rain and the dirty streetlights her pale skin glowed from within, and I might have mistaken her for an angel was it not for the nose ring and hotpants. Back then I would have gone with anyone who could give me a drink or a needle full of something good, but with her it was different. I felt drawn to her, as if there was some sort of invisible string tying us together, tugging on me. She smiled as I walked to her. A real smile, not wanting anything from me, just smiling for the sheer joy of it. The sound of the rain and the blaring traffic cut off as the door shut behind me, but that didn't concern me. Somehow I knew that I would be safe with her. She led me down this dinky little staircase into some sort of underground club. The lights were low and warm, just like the music, and the hubbub of gentle conversation filled the air. There was a throng of people, all packed into couches and around tables in that one room, yet it didn't feel crowded. I can’t explain it, but... It felt right.

“Hey Angel!” A tattooed man with electric pink hair waved us over. “Georgie just got done with a new batch of stout, you gotta try it.” Georgie, a guy with dreadlocks, was walking around with a keg of homebrew. The tattooed man looked at me and smiled, a relaxed grin of mismatched gold and silver. “You stick with Angel, little lady. She’ll steer you right.” A middle-aged woman in a pantsuit called out to us from another table, inviting us to play dominoes with her and a young vicar. As we walked through the room people kept calling out to her and, to my surprise, me.
“Her name’s not really Angel, you know. We just call her that.” The little boy showed me a card trick as he spoke, his grizzled mentor looking on in pride. Everyone - priests and gangers and hippies and suits, young and old and from all over the place – everyone was just chatting and drinking, playing games, debating and making out, laughing and signing. They all greeted us, carefree and cheerful, so far removed from the desperate drinking and frenzied fucking going on outside. I couldn’t understand how all these different people could be so relaxed and comfortable. When I asked the girl, she just looked at them all with this beatific smile on their face.
“These are the people who have found God.” She says. “As will you, when you are ready. Go through there, She’s been waiting for you.” She points to the back wall, to a doorway strung with red beads. I turned to ask her more, but before I can speak she kisses me on the cheek and slips away, joining an elderly gay couple and a biker in their game of rummy. I pushed through the curtain.

 All the lights were tinged with red, giving everything this deep blush. Every surface was draped with iridescent satin, making it feel comfortable and sexy at the same time. I saw something move out of the corner of my eye, and that's when I saw Her. She took my breath away. All the sound - the music and laughter from behind me – it all just faded to a muted hum. The colours in the room disappeared, all I could see was Her. She was sitting on this low-slung couch, barefoot and ankles crossed. She had this sleeveless red gown slit to the hip, with a flared collar and a hood that obscured Her face. The sheer fabric clung to Her in all the right places, highlighting the curve of Her bust and Her slender waist. Her limbs were long and shapely, elegant but still deliciously curvy, with fingers and toes ending in jewelled points. I stared dumbstruck. She was curvy and lush and jaw-droppingly sexy, so calm and comfortable in her own skin, something I’d never been. Then She spoke, and I nearly lost my mind. Her voice was rich and sweet like molten chocolate, and it surged and echoed like the ocean as it washed over me. As it thrummed through my body the swirls and shadows dropped from my eyes, and for the first time in forever my mind was crystal clear, unclouded by drugs. She stood and walked over to me, I could see that her skin was actually a deep, blood-red crimson.
“Genevieve. It’s good to see you.” She leant forward and planted a kiss on my forehead. The feeling of her lips remained burned into my skin, warmth spreading until it engulfed me utterly. The pain faded from my limbs, and the utter relief made me dizzy. She beckoned, and I sat across from Her, sinking gratefully into a bean bag. She pulled back Her hood and I was dumbstruck. She had long, jet black hair, and two golden horns that bent in the shape of a halo above Her head. What I'd taken for jewels on Her fingers and toes were actually gleaming claws.

We talked for a bit, but how are you supposed to make small talk with God? I mean, God’s supposed to see all and know all, right? But she asked me about my life, and seemed genuinely interested, laughing and groaning in all the right parts. I’d never had someone so genuinely interested in me, they only listened when they wanted in my pants. I kept sneaking looks at her, so very different to what I had expected.
"Surprised? You thought God would be an old man on a cloud, I suppose. Most do." Her chuckle was throaty and warm. "Let me ask you something, though. How could a crotchety old man ever dream up something as fascinating and devilishly complex as a woman?" She smiles cheekily at this, and then leans forward. "But then again, how could a woman ever think of something as wonderful and mysterious as a man?" As She spoke Her voice deepened and Her curves disappeared, to be replaced with the hard planes of His body. "I made you in my image," He says, smiling kindly. "I am woman, and I am man, both and neither at the same time, and you are all of you facets of me, and also so much more." Now it seems like He is something otherworldly, a silhouette of burning, incandescent energy, coalescing with a thunderclap back into Her sexy curves. "But this is more comfortable, at least for now."

"You know, a lot of people are angry with me. They ask why there is so much evil in the world, so much suffering. If I'm so all-powerful, why don't I do something about it? They make all these excuses for me, about 'free will', or 'working in mysterious ways', but that's just crap. It's really simple, actually. I'm not all powerful. I didn't make the world in seven days and seven nights, I didn't coalesce the stars out of space dust. All I did was drag you kicking and screaming from my own imperfection, and all I can do now is try to keep you from being dicks to each other." She smiles ruefully. "You can see how good a job I'm doing. Now you know. Is it disappointing, to have such an imperfect God? Maybe. Some people can't handle it. Some people call me the devil, as if your angels weren't cold copies of me. But this is all I can do. All I can do is reach out to whoever will have me." I felt... detached, cold, unfeeling. It was hard to believe anything, take anything in. I asked Her why. Why did she keep reaching out to us? Why didn't she leave us alone? Why was she still trying, when we are so obviously broken? Do you know what she said to me?

"Because I love you. I love all of you. It kills me, what you do sometimes. You kill and you lie and you steal, you hurt yourselves all the time. But you are my children, and I love you so so much." Then it's like a dam broke in me. Here was this gorgeous, sexy creature looking like nothing more than the Devil, but speaking only of forgiveness and love. I cried, I cried and cried, and She just took me in her arms and rocked me until I fell into a deep sleep. 

When I woke up I was wrapped in a red blanket. She was gone, as was everyone else. I walked through the basement, empty of anything but dust and cobwebs. I went up the stairs and left, and as I walked through that disgusting alley the sun broke from the horizon and bathed me in golden warmth. So maybe She was God and maybe She wasn't. You have no idea how many times I've wondered about that night, thinking maybe it was just a dream, a hallucination from all the crap I'd been putting myself through. But from that day onwards, whenever things got difficult, whenever things seemed hopeless - I always remembered that night, the warmth and comfort I felt, and I know that I am loved.

Pumpernickel

The thing – whatever it is – is dark, square, and moist looking. It contrasts vividly against the white plate and the pink flourish of smoked salmon atop it. He tells me that it's bread, but to me it just looks bizarre and foreign and infinitely more desirable than my omelette. He cuts into it, and as his even white teeth close over it I wonder once again at how richly dark it is.

"Mmmmh." He moans softly as a near orgasmic smile spreads across his face, rich and slow like caramel. The pant-suited lady on the next table – with the eggs Benedict and the severe bun – looks up from her phone in surprise. 

"My god, Avery," he whispers reverently. "That is a pumpernickel. I mean, really a damn fine loaf of bread. You really ought to try some." He playfully points his loaded fork at me, swishing it in front of my face and making little whooshing noises. As always, I can't help but smile at his unconcerned playfulness. This started happening around our fourth date. He insisted that we should both taste each others' food, and decided that he was going to feed it to me. He was so nervous about it the first time that he missed my mouth entirely and splodged spaghetti sauce across my cheek and nose. He jumped over and started licking it off, and before I knew it we were frenching in the middle of Antonio's. As I recall, by the time we were finished his pasta had gotten cold. My salad was just fine. He crows in triumph as I open my mouth, squarely depositing the square of bread on my tongue. It's coarse and heavy, sour and slightly sweet with a hint of chocolate. It's not like the bread I know at all, and I suddenly feel that all the bread I've eaten until this point has been rather wimpy. He watches me silently until I finish the bite, a small smile playing around his lips. It's a quirk of his, one that I seem to have absorbed. To him, the first taste of something new is sacred, to be revered and celebrated. 

"So? That, my dear, is a proper German pumpernickel. Not like that American crap, which is basically just a darker coloured rye loaf pumped full of colours and additives. No, this is the real deal. Did you know," he pauses briefly to take another bite. "each of these loaves is baked in a steam oven for up to twenty hours? That's what gives it the consistency and the dark colour." He's always got a fact or two like this up his sleeve. I can’t even begin to imagine where he finds them all. He talks animatedly, one hand waving in the air, occasionally making our waitress dodge around him. His conversation always flows so easily, as he goes off on tangent after random tangent. It’s one of the reasons I fell for him.

"Funny story about the name. It's not really known where it comes from. See, some words we know the origin of quite clearly, from Latin or French or wherever. Take the word ‘confluence’, for example. A meeting of two bodies of water, from the Latin 'confluere' meaning to flow together. 'Con' being together. Then move onto ‘conspire’, from the 'con' - together, and 'spirare' – to breathe, which makes sense when you think about it. Moving on again, we have  ‘per-spire’ - breathe through, and ‘re-spire’ - breathe again. We know all the parts of the words and where they come from, which by the way I personally find fascinating." He notices me smiling at him and blushes slightly.

"Getting to the point, though, there are some words we really don't know about that well. For example, the word fuck." The waitress jumps as she brings our coffees, making the saucers rattle.

"It's probably from  Germanic words meaning ‘to strike’ or ‘to plough’, but it could be from Latin or French words about intercourse. There's no way to know which one is correct. Same thing for pumpernickel. The two theories we have are that it's from German words that translate roughly to "devil's fart", or that it's from French, when Napoleon said the bread is only "bon pour Nicole" – “good for Nicole”, the name of his horse. I mean, which would you prefer, eating farts or eating horse food?" He smiles, the weird crinkly smile he gets when he's laughing at himself and wants you to join in.  I can't help but love him. He's always so silly, constantly haring off on his whimsical flights of fancy and bringing everyone around along for the ride. 

"So, how is yours? You've already tasted the fart." I feed him a slice of my omelette, giving the first taste the space and silence it deserves. He shrugs at me.
"Eh. It's not bad, but yours are better." Warmth flushes through me. The waitress returns with our cheque, and he takes her hand in both of his, smiling his devastating smile. I know that smile all too well, with perfect teeth and gorgeous lips. He used it on me to get our first date, and every morning when he wakes up beside me. 

"Thank you," he says to her. His face is altogether serious, though I can see the twinkle in his eye. "That was delightful, delectable, simply divine. I have never tasted such a luscious loaf, nor had it served so deftly nor diligently. Thank you." She blushes and smiles, her other hand smoothing her black tee over her stomach. Sorry honey, he doesn't play for your team. He's mine, all mine. I look at the effect he's having on her, and on the people around us. She's smiling, they're smiling, and I'm smiling too, all because of his sheer ridiculousness. I love his relaxed confidence, the way he can talk to anyone, anywhere, about anything. I love his nearly sexual relationship with food, and his more than sexual relationship with me. I love that just looking at him makes my heart race, and I love that I get to spend every night in his arms. It never ceases to amaze and humble me to know that he loves me too. 

He tips generously, as he always does. 

~

Written for a friend. Seed: Pumpernickel.

Patterns

I gaze through the porthole, past the reflection of my face and into the darkness beyond. The stars outside, mere pinpricks of light, shift slightly with each of the shuttle's many attitude adjustments. I look at the other passengers in my peripherals. There are a couple instructors up the front, distinct from the rest by their faculty sashes and their calm, though I’ll never forget the time my maths professor had one too many to drink and started hitting on me. The rest of the group is made up entirely of cadets, groundpounders too new to have gotten their Academy uniforms and nameplates. They look so young, too young to be leaving the embrace of our planet. Was I ever so fresh faced? It was only three years ago that I was one of them, staring wide-eyed out the ports and giggling as I tried to drink water without gravity. It was only three years, so why does it feel like an age? Why do I feel so tired? So broken down? So much happened during my time here. I was dazzled by the sheer diversity of people - some like me, and some wildly different. I remember talking with a guy about the future of hydroponics and off-planet self-sustainability, then later growing sugar-snap peas using only non-terrestrial resources. Never had a vegetable elicited such excitement in me, or so much drunken celebration. There was this girl I argued constantly with about the nature and the very existence of a higher power and the way we perceive human interactions, and in the process I became much more aware of the way my own mind worked. But of all the people I met, no-one was as switched-on and incisive as my elder partner in the Mentor Programme. The first time I saw him I watched as he soothed a nervous cadet, and in the space of two minutes had them moved from shy silence to open laughter and a lively part of our discussion.

I joined so many clubs in my first year: zero-g chess-boxing, the film and drama society, the archery club. I'll never forget falling in love for the first time, with a girl I met on this very shuttle ride. I was over the moon, and let’s face it, pretty insufferable. I’ll never forget how much it hurt to lose her. Soon I joined the same Mentor Programme I'd loved, and helped new students in the same way I'd been assisted. Before I knew it, it was all over. I'd graduated with Distinction and all my friends left to pursue their own goals: the planetside Conservatorium, teaching classical music, environmental engineering in the outstations, xenobiology in one of the colony expeditions. They all went off to do amazing things and I... Well. I didn't. I just stopped. At first I told myself I was just taking a break. I'd worked hard at the Academy, I deserved a rest. But time went on and on, and over a year down the track I still haven't done anything worthwhile with myself. I feel purposeless, adrift, unsure of what I want to do with my life. I don't want to go planetside again, where the ground curves down instead of up. I don't want to leave the Academy and that whole amazing, terrifying, inspiring part of my life behind, but I don't want to keep studying, not yet. I don't know what to do, so I do nothing. 

The shuttle jets into the central docking ring, and I watch the cadets pile out the upper hatch, exclaiming as they enter the spinning sections of the Academy where gravity begins to return. I pull myself feet-first along the entry rungs, letting my feet settle easily to the ground and striding off whilst a Mentor instructs them on how to safely reach the floor. Year before last, that would have been me teaching them. I smile as the familiar sounds of the Academy wash over me.  Voices echo at odd angles through the upward-sloping corridors, snatches of laughter bouncing across the station, and over it all the comforting hum of the ventilation systems. A feeling of security washes over me, a comforting warmth that I’ve not felt in forever. It feels as if I've finally come home after a long journey. I turn and follow an orange line up through the corridors. It's not like I need it, I could close my eyes anywhere on the station and still find my way to my destination, I've been here so many times. I spot a few familiar faces, old classmates and instructors, and so so many new ones, more than I expected. I feel an odd sense of displacement, but I suppose it's to be expected. I'd left the Mentor Programme near the end, the stresses of my personal life and final exams became too much to bear. That was one of my biggest regrets, one of many.

I reach a door, one I know very well. The name 'Kurt Marshall' reads prominently in silver lettering beneath the title of Mentor Coordinator. He was one of the first people I ever met at the Academy, one of my first friends, and someone who I still look up to for his kindness and solidity. I slap the console, and the door quietly slides open. It's all the same, exactly as it has been every single time I visited this office over the years, piled high with forms and printouts. Only the pictures of his grandchildren have changed, they look older now. I can't count the hours I spent in this office, just talking. We talked about everything, from study to dating to the meaning of life and the subjectivity of reality. He stands and shakes my hand in greeting, his grip firm as always. We make small talk for a while, about his grandchildren, the Mentoring Programme, what's new at the Academy. But then he asks about my life as if he can sense there's something wrong. I tell him everything. I tell him my worries and fears, about my lack of purpose, about trying to move on with my life. As I unload my crowded head all of my problems seem to lighten, ever so slightly. Talking with him has always helped me calm down, now more than ever it seems. He listens to me intently, sympathetically, and then sits thoughtfully for a while.

"There's someone I'd like you to meet," he says to me, standing up and motioning me to the door. "I think it will help you clarify what's going on for you."  

We stride through the corridors and once again I'm struck by at home I feel in this place, so much more than when I'm planetside. We reach a familiar common area, and he motions a young man over. 

"I'd like you to meet Thomas Slater, Bachelor of Xenolinguistics. Started last year, and he's already taken over your role in the Mentoring Programme." The young man shakes my hand and smiles, and in the happy sweep of his lip and the mischievous glint in his eye I recognise a reflection of myself years ago. He speaks, sharing his gaze equally between the two of us: 

"I'd love to stay and chat, but I'm afraid I've promised to meet someone." He looks past my shoulder and his face lights up, split by a huge grin. He tells me how lovely it is to meet me as he quicksteps around me into the arms of a young black-haired girl.  She shrieks as he picks her up and spins her in the air, aided by the low-G, and they both laugh. 

"You've met the boy," Kurt says, motioning me to follow once more. "Now let me tell you about him."

"Tom Slater. As I said, he started just over a year ago, and he's made a huge impression already. He's polite and well-mannered, as you saw, and very enthusiastic about the extracurriculars. He joined the Mentoring Programme after only a couple months, about as fast as you did actually, and it didn't take long before he was taking an active leadership role. He's intelligent but not a genius, with grades hovering between Distinctions and High Distinctions depending on the areas he finds most interesting." Tom seems happy, deep in some animated discussion with his partner. He’s quick-witted too, judging by the frequency of her laughter. Kurt follows my gaze. 

"Her name is Sarah Silverman, a music major. They met on the shuttle ride on their first day, and got together soon after. Currently he's the happiest man on station, but that will change soon enough. It's about time for her to break his heart." I'd tuned him out slightly, being lost in my own reminiscence, but the last sent an icicle down my spine. It was not just what he had said, heartbreak happens all the time after all, but the brutally matter-of-fact way he had predicted it was stunning. 

Why? I ask. Why will she break his heart?
"Why? Because it's necessary. This is how it happens, this is how it's always happened, how it always must happen. It's a very complex process, requiring close monitoring and control, and this is one of the most important steps in that process." I no longer know what we are talking about. Processes? Controlling the steps? A sour feeling clenches at my gut.

What do you mean? What process? What steps? 

"It's a long story," he says, his eyes filled with a dreadful pity. "I think we'd better sit down."

"At any given time, the Academy has approximately fifty thousand cadets, and aside from the small proportion that are distance education and remain planetside, most of them are here, on-station. Each year approximately ten thousand of our students graduate, while we a similar number of new cadets. You know these figures, you worked with them in the Programme. We're one of the largest tertiary education institutions not planetside, and definitely one of the most diverse and advanced. We are known for the quality of our facilities and courses, but most of all the Academy is famous for the high quality of its graduates. More than any other institution we generate the great people of our society - visionaries, artists, leaders, scientists - you name it. We shape our cadets, we nourish and encourage them to grow to their fullest potential, and then they go out and change the world, change the course of history. You ask most of these people and they'll tell you that sure the education is great, but what really helped them, what really inspired them, was the Mentor Programme. Because of people like Thomas, people like you, we give the best out-of-the-classroom experience to our cadets." I have heard all this before, of course. This kind of pep talk has been given to us during training, and even though it gets repeated a lot it still makes me feel a little glow of pride. But there is more this time, an air of anticipation.

"In order to become the great people they could be, in order to reach their full potential, they needed other people. People who thought differently, who were active and inspiring. But we found that sometimes the required person would not appear. No-one would have quite the right mix of kindness, humour, extroversion - everything we needed to inspire everyone to be their best." At this, he shrugs.
"So we made them."

My mind refuses to compute that last, and I have to ask him to repeat it.
You made them? What are you talking about? What could you possibly mean? He looks at me gravely, and the compassion in his face is more terrible than anything I can imagine. 

"Like a planted actor in the audience, we provided that inspirational spark. We have the most advanced synthetics laboratories in the system, and our informational technologies are second to none. It was a joint project, all the departments had be to involved and on-board, because we needed such a diversity of skills for our new mentors to be able to inspire every kind of cadet imaginable. There were so many variables involved, and we had to maintain such careful controls on the situation. We tried using actors, at first, but they invariably slipped up, or didn’t get the job done. We needed our Mentors to believe, truly believe, what they were doing was special. Our first prototype worked too well, and nearly became the First Lady of the southeast continent. The second... we went too far in the other direction. We broke him, without giving him enough support, and he didn’t make it through. It took years of work, and a fair degree of trial and error, before we hit on the ideal design. You see, the Mentor must, through their example and their personality, inspire others to get involved and to grow. They must be kind, supportive, outgoing and funny, and many other things. Most importantly, they must be good, but not great. They must be able to be surpassed, whilst providing inspiration and challenge all the way, constantly urging everyone around them to greater heights. They must perpetually inhabit second or third place, but only by a very small margin, so those ahead can never become complacent. Take Thomas, for example. A Bachelor of Xenolinguistics is interesting, but not so specialised as to be outstanding. He is intelligent indeed, and often conducts productive group studies, but he is never at the top of the class. He is involved heavily in the Mentor Programme, and thus many people know him and consider him a friend, but he is so busy he rarely forms a truly deep bond. Indeed, the only one he has formed is with Sarah Silverman, and at last we answer your question. Why must she break his heart? Simple, it is another form of control. He met her on the shuttle, and quickly came to love her. The amount of time he devotes to her precludes to a degree the forming of other deep relationships, which is helpful. It also prevents other prospective partners from approaching him, keeping his self-esteem in check and forcing his reliance on her for self-image. Meanwhile, he is on top of the world. He is happy, energised and enthusiastic, wanting to jump in and have a go at everything, anything. He will be in the spotlight, and he will be inspiration and mentor to all those around him. Then we get to the turning point. She will leave him, and his world will crash down around his ears. He will go through phases of apathy and depression, causing his grades to drop. He will also withdraw from the world, letting his involvement in many things lapse. It is during this time that he will fulfil the second part of his function. His withdrawal will leave a vacuum that others will step into, thus coming into their own and truly starting to blossom. They will overtake him, and by the time he has regained some emotional function he will have been surpassed by everyone. He will then oscillate between trying to catch up, and in the process urging those ahead of him to greater heights, and periods of listlessness, where he will fade from the memory and graces of those who once loved him, making their eventual parting that much easier. He will graduate, and as always he will do it in a manner that is competent but not spectacular. Then, while all of his friends will move on to bigger and greater things, he... will not. He will take a break, bum around for a while, unsure of what he wants to do next. Because he has no purpose programmed beyond the Academy, he will begin to feel restless and worthless, and eventually he will return to the one place that still feels like home. Here."

There are tears in my eyes. What he has just described... I can't accept it. I can't even begin to assimilate what he is saying. All I know is that there is a horrible wrenching pain in my chest, memory of a thousand broken hearts as I think of what that promising young man will go through.
Why? Why would you do that to a person? I thought you were kind! I looked up to you! Why would you do this?

He looks like he is in pain, and I feel terrible, but I cannot accept that someone could be manipulated so deeply, and to such unhappiness.
"But he is not a person. He is a machine, a construct. He's not real, he was never real."

He is real! He's walking around out there with a girl who loves him, friends who love him! How can you say that he isn't real? He's like me! Just like me, and I'm real! I'm here standing in front of you! He smiles miserably.

"He isn't like you. He is you. You share exactly the same programming, the same chassis. Only the outside is different. Don't you wonder why his life matches yours so closely? It's a pattern that works. That's why you're here, isn't it? You felt like you had no purpose, like you weren't doing anything worthwhile, because it's true. You were made to be here, to do this." The tears are streaming down my face now, my chest constricting painfully.
No... no no no! I'm real, I'm here now. How could you say that? How could you do this? What kind of a monster are you? I'm real! I have loved, I have been hurt. I can feel! I'm not wrong... I'm not...

He reaches forward and presses something cold and round against the base of my skull, just behind my right ear. I hear a whir, painfully loud, as if it's inside my own head. The whole right side of my face goes numb, and my vision seems to split down the middle, one half rotating up 90 degrees. My stomach turns as I realise that the entire right side of my face has just hinged up. I want to scream, to jump out of the chair and run down the hallway, escape to anywhere but here, but I can't move. I can't even speak; my whole body is paralysed, completely numb.
"I am sorry, you know. I don't like how much we have to hurt you. We try to make it as smooth as possible, but there are always so many variables it can be hard to control. We find that it helps if we tell you everything before we reset you."

He twists something in my head, and then pulls hard. With a sick squelching sound he pulls out a bank of etched circuitry that drips with translucent blue ichor, which he places in a steel tray. 

"I've taken your motor functions away first, so you should feel a little better. Next will be the emotions." I realise he is right, I cannot feel anything from my body any more. No pain, no sensation of breathing, no feeling of clothes on my skin. Cold fear grips my heart as he reaches forward again, and then he twists and I don't feel anything anymore. No more pain, no more terror, no more sadness.
"Next will be the memories, the most important part aside from core programming. We just edit these a little, give you a new background and slight personality tweaks, and then pop it all in a fresh chassis. You'll live again, love again, just as you were made to." I watch devoid of emotion as he reaches for another memory core, and then I see nothing.

~

I gaze through the porthole into the darkness beyond, past the reflection of my face cast by the brightly lit interior of the cabin. The stars beyond, tiny points of light, wobble every time the shuttle changes course. I can see the other passengers in my peripherals, cadets just like myself, young and excited by all the new possibilities. There's a girl sitting next to me with freckles and curly red hair. "I'm Maddy," she says. "I'm a dance major." We talk for the whole shuttle ride. She's amazing, she really is. I think I might be falling in love.