Conversations on the Fortune's Fist: Fifteen

Nerila didn't hear him the first time.

The thoughts that raced and crowded and tumbled through her head, pushing each other aside before she could bring them in focus, Pilot's tests - Crew - pod maintenance - need to make that bed - hire new medtech - stove needs cleaning - check Alpassi's scans - inventory assessment, drowned out Mitch's voice until he took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him.

"Talk to me. Sweetheart. Please."

Her heart did a little double thump at what she saw in his face, and her thoughts went straight to the glass vial tucked down at the bottom of her pocket. Hidden. Hidden well enough? Safe? "Nothing, nothing's wrong, I'm just distracted. Too much to do, you know?"

"Sweetheart," Mitch said softly. "Don't take me for a fool."

The lie was ready on her lips, rehearsed. Hells, rehearsed. Because she'd been ready for this moment, not knowing who it would be, but knowing it would come. Like it always does. Like it had last time, time and time over. She knew how to handle it, had handled it a dozen times before. 

First denial. No, of course not. Perhaps with a touch of outraged anger. How could you think that of me? If that didn't work, carefully calibrated admissions. I did try it. I know it was silly. Or I do occasionally, yes. Not more than once a month.

All of it, tried and true strategies.

She looked into his eyes and realized there was nothing in her that could lie to this man, not this man, not Michael Mitcheson, not her husband.

"I'm sorry," she said, instead. "I'm sorry."

"How much?" he asked. "For how long?"

How much? Enough. Isn't that the only answer? "Too much," she said at last, looking away from him. "Too long."

"Sweetheart." He tightened his grip a little on her shoulders. "You have to deal with it. Get clean. Time off, whatever."

"I know, I know.  When I get this last lot of tests through for Pilot, I'll - "

Mitch shook his head. "No. It won't ever be the right time, sweetheart. There'll always be something else. Another reason."

Nerila bit her lip. "I can't, not yet, not right now..."

"You can. You have to."  He folded her in his arms, whispered to the top of her head. "I'm here, sweetheart. We'll get through this. We will."

Then she could lie to him, look up and meet his gaze and smile and say "I know. I know."

Because there was no we. In everything else, maybe.

Not in this.

After that, it was easy, so easy it felt inevitable.  I'll put in for leave. Today. This is it. 

It'll be hard. I'll need you.

She watched him leave for his duty shift.

She packed a bag.

Not with much. A couple of changes of clothes.

She left her wedding ring on the dresser.

The transport hub was crowded. Old men walking with sticks, children clinging to parents' hands and gazing around wide-eyed, sullen teenagers with too much makeup.

Everybody trying to get to somewhere that isn't where they are.

She picked a destination. Pochelympe .  Nowhere she'd ever heard of. She liked the name, liked saying it over to herself as she waited in line to buy a ticket. Pochelympe. Pochelympe. Pochelympe.

Pochelympe.

A simple transaction, which she found a little disappointing. Moments like this should have some sort of complicated rigmarole attached. Maybe a ritual.

No ritual. Just pushing her bank chip across the counter and the clerk pushing it back with a ticket, not even looking up from the holonovel he's watching beneath the desk.

And then she's taking the short walk to the Interbus, pushing her way through the mass of people, all trying to be somewhere or someone they aren't.

The crowds close around her.

And she's gone.