At the bar, she ordered a lager called “If It Ain’t Fixed, Don’t Break It.” Clean and clear as your last drug test. Staring at her phone or checking the door, she feigned expecting someone any minute. She wandered, gazing at the merchandise display along the back wall: logoed T-shirts, pint glasses, and growlers. A man about her age (she smiled to herself; she still passed for under thirty) with shaggy black hair and a black Labrador retriever eased away from the bar, an opaque yellow pint in one hand, his dog’s leash in the other.

As she slowly progresses in the pat-down line, some protestors off to June’s right get her attention.  Most of them silently loft their signs – “A Lying Danger to Democracy,” “Lock him up!”  “A Pig’s Pig,” “Liar, Loser, Crook” – while a few yell what is on theirs.  Two men in line just ahead of June bellow back in unison to the yellers, “Woke-ass shitbirds!”

They pitched and swayed for an hour before they were picked up by the Moby Blu, another nearby ferry. The Italian-speaking purser was confused when they boarded. He assumed they were a couple and temporarily housed them in the same cabin. They protested at first, but the hot shower, dry clothes, and warm food brought by the steward overcame their awkwardness in the small stateroom.

It’s always the end of days in Florida. I lived abroad since I was sixteen, washing up in different ports across the globe until I found my way back with Jeremiah. Don’t let the bright sunlight in January fool you; in Florida it is always Apocalypse pretty soon. This is where the final seals will be broken. Damn straight.

I watched. It didn’t take long. His back contracted into an arc that left the sofa and he let out a sound, half groan half shriek that went on and on. I almost got up but then it died out. Not the spasm though, which took many minutes to release his back to the sofa again.

Even though we live in a city, Lee’s warmth makes it feel like a village somehow. In a village, there would be less of a class divide. Lee might be the checkout clerk, but we would see each other in the square, maybe at the pub. I would buy her and her husband a drink.

The Pirate removed his hat and nodded at the back of Grace’s head.
“M’lady.”
He placed the hat on an empty stool.  Grace looked up.
“Dark enough tonight,” The Pirate said, “…to have your legs stolen out from under you.  Far too many miles, but I was determined to make it.  Never disappoint ghosts.  What have you done to the Lepidoptera?  They’re positively out of their skulls.  Do they have skulls?”

“The Mud Club. It’s right around here somewhere.” Our foreign comms units weren’t granted access to Texas communications. We knew our Central States’ units would be blocked before we left and had planned to buy a convertor chip but hadn’t had a chance yet. Remembering that the tourist bars were on 6^th Street, we counted our way up there. We passed dark dance halls, closed virtual world entertainment cafés, and what must have been seven barbecue joints promising exotic synthetic meats from places like Brazil (tapir), Malaysia (sun bear), and the deadly snakes of Australia.

Looking back, I could have avoided a whole lot of trouble if I had just handled things with Tamsin in an adult fashion. Perhaps had a chat with her over a joint behind the Farm King. Tell her I was a married woman and couldn’t carry on like that.
I’m kidding myself. Nothing would have helped. Certainly not talking about it.

He stood up and opened his leather bag. He took out a small, gold-colored instrument. It was a tuning hammer. He opened the top of the piano. With a small grunt he lowered his arm into the piano back. I could hear the faint tinging of strings as his hand moved around in the piano’s depths.