The Sweat of the Brow (xxiii)

Sunday turns to Monday and I’m back at the Cove, sitting across from Ben. I pick a patch of cloudless sky to stare at. A cort can throw a display onto any still surface, anything that’ll stay still long enough to be subtracted from your ocular datastream.

Sitting there, sipping rum and sea, I can see anything I want. I can hear too, any song or speech or sound ever recorded. Some corts will do smell or taste. Not a corporate job like mine.

I’m fine with sight and sound. Since I don’t have anything to look at, and not too much to hear.

The wonders of the world and all my own. And here I am just looking at the sky.

I feel someone hovering. They don’t go away. I look up.

“Hello Martin,” says Katie Chandos.

“Bye bye,” Ben says, picking up his drink and walking off.

I’m speechless. For a hundred different reasons. How did she find me. Why is she here. Where did she come from. Sixty years later, sixty years older, how did I know it was her?

“What’s good here?” she says, saving me.

“Rum and sea,” I say.

“Get me a double.”

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~ by davekov on 19 November 2011.

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