Never again would they dare to call me insane. For they are the ones who dare to call themselves cautious, careful, “realistic.”
Leaving home has never been easy for me. Diane sat cross-legged on the couch with her head in her hands and just stared at the coffee table.
“How long do you think this will take?” she asked, and then looked at me through tear-shined eyes. I fidgeted around the living room, ran a hand across the broad teleview screen, looked for a tabak stic, but found none, then decided to sit and steel myself for what I knew would be an onslaught of more guild-ridden accusation-laden “questions”.
It felt good to feel my legs next to hers, and I placed a hand atop her thigh. She placed her hand on mine, and our fingers entwined.
“I don’t know,” I said. She looked up from the floor and met my eyes.
“As long as it takes, right?” All I could do was nod.
My bags had already been packed, and the base held all my assignment gear. Diane let me say good-bye at our house’s front door, so I took a hover-taxi to the strip.
The old gang lingered around the pre-flight bay, boisterous and energetic. Allejandro emanated out of the noisy group and from absolutely nowhere, he materialized a chromed quart of the best Jamaican amber I have tasted ever, and since. I tried to put my fears of this mission and thoughts of Diane behind me, and with Allejandro’s amber coursing through my veins, the flight to the island became nothing more than a blur.
THE REST OF THIS STORY CAN BE READ IN MY BOOK, GREAT AMERICAN SHORT STORIES AND POETRY, PURCHASED HERE OR THROUGH AMAZON.COM