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Organised by
RogerDodger
Word limit
400–750
That Sad, Perfect Smile
“We’re going to have to visit to the Skyfalls in System 43 when the girls get out of school,” I tell Carissa, fiddling with the frayed cuff of my pilot’s jacket. “I know there’s been a few stellamalaria cases, but we just dropped off a shipment and I’ll be damned if those falls aren’t the prettiest thing this side of the galaxy.”
If she speaks, her microphone doesn’t catch it.
I’ll have to ask her to re-hem this jacket. She’ll undoubtedly give me grief over it--probably heave an exaggerated sigh and complain that I show no regard for my belongings. I’ll protest (because hey, it’s not like I’m trying to trash my clothes--delivery pilots get dirty whether they’re global or galactic) but she’ll just get that sad look in her eyes and tell me to be more careful.
She’s not talking about the jacket, at that point. Wives never are. But I always pretend she is.
I am careful, love, I tell her. You know I can’t damage anything you make on purpose. Sleeves just wear with time.
Eventually, I realize the cabin’s still silent. I look up to ask Carissa what she thinks about the family vacation to the Skyfalls, but the connection must have expired, because she’s gone. Even without the hologram’s added illumination, the room is extremely bright.
The navigation system’s still working just fine, so I recline and continue watching the stars. But no matter how hard I try to focus, my fingers keep wandering back to the frayed hem of my jacket. Surely it hasn’t been that long since Carissa’s mended it?
The stitches just never seem to stay put anymore.
“I can’t wait to see you and the girls,” I murmur to her, burying my face in my hands. The light in here is so bright, so sterile. “None of these idiots are pulling their weight. Haven’t seen half the crew in days--they’re always asleep. Might be puking their guts out. I know full well they’ve got alcohol stashed down with the cargo”
I don’t need to look up to know that Carissa’s giving me that sweet, sympathetic smile--the one that doesn’t move her lips so much as drift across them. It’s the same smile I fell in love with, long ago.
I was notoriously clumsy in school. Carissa never laughed at me--just smiled gently. And then she’d point to a stain on my shirt and turn back to her homework.
I lift my head and--sure enough--she’s smiling softly. I lean back in my chair. She makes no move to speak, so I offer her my own half-hearted grin.
“Ah, well. What can you do?” I’m fiddling with the gaping jacket sleeve again. I change the subject and try to stop. “I’m thinking about buying tickets for the family to see the Skyfalls. After this delivery run, we’ll be able to afford first-class seats in a non-commercial starship. Hell, I could rent one and pilot it myself.”
No answer. My smile grows heavier by the second.
“If it’s the stellamalaria, there’s no need to worry. They were cracking down on disease containment when we left. Made us cover every bit of skin we had. The loading docks at the airport were getting sprayed down with pesticide. Won’t be a single bug left on that planet by the time they’re done.”
Carissa’s face is blank and as still as a photograph. The call must have frozen. Chuckling dryly, I hang up.
I try to look at the stars through the window, but the lights are too bright.
“I think something’s wrong,” I tell my wife. She smiles back at me, and I can’t remember if she said hello before the hologram froze.
The lights are stupidly bright. I rub at my eyes, longing for the dimness of our shared bedroom as I try to piece my sluggish thoughts into words.
“It’s just—the ship’s quiet. I’ll hear the others sometimes, but nobody’s there when I look. Between that and the lights…something’s off. I swear, I knew they said spacetime did shit to you, but I’ve never had it this bad before.”
For a moment, the hologram looks like a picture on a bedside table and I’m lying in sweaty sheets, panting, and the cabin looks like the infirmary and my wrist burns holy hell, but then I turn to the stars and everything is back to normal.
“I’ll have to fix that sleeve when you get back,” Carissa says, smiling sadly.
If she speaks, her microphone doesn’t catch it.
I’ll have to ask her to re-hem this jacket. She’ll undoubtedly give me grief over it--probably heave an exaggerated sigh and complain that I show no regard for my belongings. I’ll protest (because hey, it’s not like I’m trying to trash my clothes--delivery pilots get dirty whether they’re global or galactic) but she’ll just get that sad look in her eyes and tell me to be more careful.
She’s not talking about the jacket, at that point. Wives never are. But I always pretend she is.
I am careful, love, I tell her. You know I can’t damage anything you make on purpose. Sleeves just wear with time.
Eventually, I realize the cabin’s still silent. I look up to ask Carissa what she thinks about the family vacation to the Skyfalls, but the connection must have expired, because she’s gone. Even without the hologram’s added illumination, the room is extremely bright.
The navigation system’s still working just fine, so I recline and continue watching the stars. But no matter how hard I try to focus, my fingers keep wandering back to the frayed hem of my jacket. Surely it hasn’t been that long since Carissa’s mended it?
The stitches just never seem to stay put anymore.
“I can’t wait to see you and the girls,” I murmur to her, burying my face in my hands. The light in here is so bright, so sterile. “None of these idiots are pulling their weight. Haven’t seen half the crew in days--they’re always asleep. Might be puking their guts out. I know full well they’ve got alcohol stashed down with the cargo”
I don’t need to look up to know that Carissa’s giving me that sweet, sympathetic smile--the one that doesn’t move her lips so much as drift across them. It’s the same smile I fell in love with, long ago.
I was notoriously clumsy in school. Carissa never laughed at me--just smiled gently. And then she’d point to a stain on my shirt and turn back to her homework.
I lift my head and--sure enough--she’s smiling softly. I lean back in my chair. She makes no move to speak, so I offer her my own half-hearted grin.
“Ah, well. What can you do?” I’m fiddling with the gaping jacket sleeve again. I change the subject and try to stop. “I’m thinking about buying tickets for the family to see the Skyfalls. After this delivery run, we’ll be able to afford first-class seats in a non-commercial starship. Hell, I could rent one and pilot it myself.”
No answer. My smile grows heavier by the second.
“If it’s the stellamalaria, there’s no need to worry. They were cracking down on disease containment when we left. Made us cover every bit of skin we had. The loading docks at the airport were getting sprayed down with pesticide. Won’t be a single bug left on that planet by the time they’re done.”
Carissa’s face is blank and as still as a photograph. The call must have frozen. Chuckling dryly, I hang up.
I try to look at the stars through the window, but the lights are too bright.
“I think something’s wrong,” I tell my wife. She smiles back at me, and I can’t remember if she said hello before the hologram froze.
The lights are stupidly bright. I rub at my eyes, longing for the dimness of our shared bedroom as I try to piece my sluggish thoughts into words.
“It’s just—the ship’s quiet. I’ll hear the others sometimes, but nobody’s there when I look. Between that and the lights…something’s off. I swear, I knew they said spacetime did shit to you, but I’ve never had it this bad before.”
For a moment, the hologram looks like a picture on a bedside table and I’m lying in sweaty sheets, panting, and the cabin looks like the infirmary and my wrist burns holy hell, but then I turn to the stars and everything is back to normal.
“I’ll have to fix that sleeve when you get back,” Carissa says, smiling sadly.