“Entirely unacceptable.” She planted her heel and spun back around. “It’s today, for God’s sake, you can’t just...” She paced back up the length of the room, head down and cocked slightly to one side, her fingertips white on the phone pressed against her face.
He watched from his chair, coffee clutched between two hands. He was trying to catch up with what was going on. It had started with a problem with the caterer, but that had moved on to something with the locally-sourced fish market; he was almost entirely sure she was currently talking to the captain of a fishing boat.
“No,” she said, doing the heel thing again: Plant, spin, step. Somehow the spin worked with the expression on her face to express something beyond the bounds of normal human patience. “No, I’m sorry too, Captain.” She jerked the phone away from her face and violently poked her finger into its face.
“Can you believe that?” She rounded on him, waving her arms. “The only boat in the entire state going out after Fugu, and his wife has some sort of stroke.” She waved her phone at him, as though offering evidence.
He wondered what it was going to be like, telling her he wasn’t in the mood for sex for the first time. It hadn’t happened yet; he was always in the mood. But he was sure it would, at some point. People couldn’t be perfectly compatibly synced forever.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose people will have to settle for non-lethal fish on their little cracker things. I understand Salmon is quite good?” He wasn’t a fish person, himself, something that he’d always been able to forgive her for not remembering. So far, he thought. Would that last forever?
Something flashed in her eyes. He imagined that that flash was what people saw, right before she went for their throats. So far the predatory lunge hadn’t been directed his way, though he sort of enjoyed flirting with it, inviting it, watching her keep it leashed.
He watched her leash it now. She spun around again, took a deep breath. He wondered if she’d be able to keep doing that forever, or if eating it for him was going to kill her eventually. He imagined that flash in her eyes at fifty, followed by a sudden look of surprise as she clutched her chest.
“I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “I’ll call the caterer back and we’ll have salmon, or something.”
He’d had fugu before; it made his tongue numb, but it also made his heart race, his head buzz with the feeling that he’d just flipped a coin with death. Somehow, he couldn’t stop flipping those coins.
“Well,” he said, “I’m going to go get dressed. Is there anything I can do for you?”
She was already dialing the phone again. She pressed it against her head, looking up at him, preparing for the next round of the battle that was her life.
“No,” she said, “no, it’s fine.”
He watched from his chair, coffee clutched between two hands. He was trying to catch up with what was going on. It had started with a problem with the caterer, but that had moved on to something with the locally-sourced fish market; he was almost entirely sure she was currently talking to the captain of a fishing boat.
“No,” she said, doing the heel thing again: Plant, spin, step. Somehow the spin worked with the expression on her face to express something beyond the bounds of normal human patience. “No, I’m sorry too, Captain.” She jerked the phone away from her face and violently poked her finger into its face.
“Can you believe that?” She rounded on him, waving her arms. “The only boat in the entire state going out after Fugu, and his wife has some sort of stroke.” She waved her phone at him, as though offering evidence.
He wondered what it was going to be like, telling her he wasn’t in the mood for sex for the first time. It hadn’t happened yet; he was always in the mood. But he was sure it would, at some point. People couldn’t be perfectly compatibly synced forever.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose people will have to settle for non-lethal fish on their little cracker things. I understand Salmon is quite good?” He wasn’t a fish person, himself, something that he’d always been able to forgive her for not remembering. So far, he thought. Would that last forever?
Something flashed in her eyes. He imagined that that flash was what people saw, right before she went for their throats. So far the predatory lunge hadn’t been directed his way, though he sort of enjoyed flirting with it, inviting it, watching her keep it leashed.
He watched her leash it now. She spun around again, took a deep breath. He wondered if she’d be able to keep doing that forever, or if eating it for him was going to kill her eventually. He imagined that flash in her eyes at fifty, followed by a sudden look of surprise as she clutched her chest.
“I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “I’ll call the caterer back and we’ll have salmon, or something.”
He’d had fugu before; it made his tongue numb, but it also made his heart race, his head buzz with the feeling that he’d just flipped a coin with death. Somehow, he couldn’t stop flipping those coins.
“Well,” he said, “I’m going to go get dressed. Is there anything I can do for you?”
She was already dialing the phone again. She pressed it against her head, looking up at him, preparing for the next round of the battle that was her life.
“No,” she said, “no, it’s fine.”
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