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MetriculateHe was my seed, the son I bore once, long ago. My memories were all fugged, unclear, incomplete. Some time would be nice, to piece the puzzle back together, but time was not a luxury I had. Not here.
In the moment between the wall caving in and the eviscerating heat finally ending this life, I saw echoes of him lingering. Of course I knew he was long dead, but still he lingered like a sun spot on my vision as the explosion claimed me for another cycle.
* * *
Stepping into my cabin, I took a deep breath, air stale and heavy with particulates, in dire need of scrubbing and recycling. Six long solar years had passed since my last resurrection, and this place stayed the same, or almost. Subtle shifting from the asteroid's gravity had moved the odd item. Without asking, my mind recorded the exact places of each movement. Thank fuck the show
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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