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She nods reluctantly, features tense and drawn tight. “…Tom’s got a sharp ear. Try not to be too loud, <span class="mu-i">or so help me God.</span>”
Both of you easily have a head and a dozen kilos over her, but in that moment, as the overhead light flickers and casts light on Caroline’s spatula, the mousey little housewife looks as intimidating as a bull shark.
You step away from the kitchen, fumbling at the latch that opens to the veranda. “See you in a second, Jean.”
The veranda is small, but comfortable enough to easily house a small family and a few friends over for dinner. Much like the interior of the house, it’s seen some better days. The floor needs sweeping, the rails a good pressure hosing, and a few flaking areas that could use a fresh coat of paint. Inspecting the covered form of a barbecue unit, it looks like it hasn’t been used for months, if not years, given the dust buildup.
But if nothing else, the view hasn’t changed. Their townhouse affords one of the better views of the Outer Ring, and almost the entirety of Upper Garden. Just slightly, you can make out the berthing ports of Bracken Plaza, and the tip of Foggy Bottom. Ships come into the lagoon, slipping into Ishtar Bay, bearing colors and flags from the disparate nations of the Flooded World – even as the sun continues to set, the ports and markets of Babylonia are always open.
The door behind you opens several seconds after. Jean comes out, looking slightly more human. Caroline must’ve loaned him a towel to scrub the dirt, soot and grime off of his face. Nothing could be really done for the smell of tanning hides, clinging on to his clothes like a faint, cloying scent. But the breeze from the lagoon blows gently, masking it with the gentle confection of brine, diesel, and the city itself.
Jean tosses you a bottle, and you snatch it out of the air. Inspecting the label reveals a cheery monk, pondering the mystery of his glass. Craft beer, imported from the Megiddan Empire! Certainly pricey, but one that’s well worth the cost. You haven’t had one in years. Bless the monks that spend their time making it.
At the unspoken question, he holds up his own bottle, and gruffly replies, “Caroline’s been keeping some at the top of the fridge. Just out of Tom’s reach. Some for her...some in case I dropped in to visit.”
A light vice, but one completely excusable for a stressed seamstress in her position.
In an old ritual you haven’t performed in years, you both twist the caps off, clink your drinks together, and take a generous swing. You manage two swings, but Jean sputters off, barely spilling after he tries to go for a second gulp.
“Dammit,” he grumbles. “We used to be able to do the whole damned bottle.”
“Better that we don’t,” you reply dryly, “We’d be setting a bad example for Tom.”
(cont.)
