freedom. In fact, by definition, it’s the opposite. Again: different time. Not judging.
“But perhaps deciding to pave the cow paths—that is, paths trampled by bovines whose only concern was finding the tenderest of grass and alfalfa as opposed to the most efficient way to go from A to B—was utterly, utterly stupid .”
“. . . stupid.”
She glanced over and saw him, a man who would have been striking under any circumstances. His sheer height, breadth of shoulders, and impeccably tailored navy suit demanded respectful attention. But what was odd was how he stood in the middle of the cement apron, arms stretched out and face tilted toward the (cloudy, sullen, threatening-to-rain) sky, smiling. Almost like he was . . . all right, it was silly, but she was a marine biologist, so she knew what a stranded mammal caught under open sky looked like. She was looking at a male Homo sapien, basking like a leopard seal, one decked out in a terrific suit about to snack on a dozen penguins.
(Later, when she knew what he was, she thought it was interesting that she would have instantly compared him to a predatory species; he and the woman were, in fact, apex predators.)
All that, still, might have escaped her notice—or at least only captured her attention for a second—but then the shrill woman said it again, echoing her thoughts: “Stupid!”
“Sticks and stones, my love,” the man replied in a cheerful baritone. He was turning in a slow circle while still staring at the sky, so blissed out she wondered if he was high on something. (She found out later he had been: high on the great outdoors, high on the color of the sky, high on how the air smelled before a spring rain, high on being in the company of his queen. Thus: no accounting for taste.)
“Sinclair!” she cried in the tone of a woman annoyed beyond her capacity to bear such things, but the fond smile made her tone a lie. “Will you please get a grip? Stop staring up and spinning around like friggin’ Mary Tyler Moore on Nicollet Mall, okay?”
“Shush,” he said, still basking, eyes still closed, arms still stretched out, still blissed out despite (because of? No . . . impossible) the shrill blonde. “Do you know how long it has been since I was outside—”
“Twenty minutes.”
“—in a coastal city—”
“Year and a half ago, on the Cape with Marky Mark and the Fuzzy Bunch.”
“—during daylight? And you must promise never to call Michael that to his face.”
“I’m not promising anything, and okay, that thing about daylight, that’s a fair point. Also: Who can turn the world on with his big weird smiiiiile? Who can take a sucky day, and suddenly make it all seem super lame?” she sang, horribly off-key while (worse!) butchering the lyrics to the Mary Tyler Moore jingle. “Well, it’s you, Sink Lair, and you should know it! Each day you really, really blow it! Schmucks are all around and you’re driving me crazy, stop spinning around like you’re in a daze-ey . . .”
“We’re gonna stake it after all,” was his (tuneful!) response, at which point the blonde shuddered and said the most puzzling thing yet: “No matter what I do to make things right, this timeline gets worse and worse.”
Tourists, thought Fred, annoyed they’d caught her interest for even a few seconds. Proof I’d rather think about anything else except whatever mess Fehr’s in. What’s the actual line from the jingle? Ah: How will you make it on your own?
The man put his arms down and snapped his long fingers: crack ! “The phone! I need to call them.”
“Again?”
“What, again?” he replied easily, reaching into his suit jacket pocket to pull out an iPhone, sliding his fingers across it, then holding it to his ear. “It’s been hours, long lonely hours, and I—hello? Yes, may I speak with them? Yes, again.”
“You’re gonna drive the poor guy to suicide! Also again.”
“It’s me!” the tall, handsome, dignified man said,
“But perhaps deciding to pave the cow paths—that is, paths trampled by bovines whose only concern was finding the tenderest of grass and alfalfa as opposed to the most efficient way to go from A to B—was utterly, utterly stupid .”
“. . . stupid.”
She glanced over and saw him, a man who would have been striking under any circumstances. His sheer height, breadth of shoulders, and impeccably tailored navy suit demanded respectful attention. But what was odd was how he stood in the middle of the cement apron, arms stretched out and face tilted toward the (cloudy, sullen, threatening-to-rain) sky, smiling. Almost like he was . . . all right, it was silly, but she was a marine biologist, so she knew what a stranded mammal caught under open sky looked like. She was looking at a male Homo sapien, basking like a leopard seal, one decked out in a terrific suit about to snack on a dozen penguins.
(Later, when she knew what he was, she thought it was interesting that she would have instantly compared him to a predatory species; he and the woman were, in fact, apex predators.)
All that, still, might have escaped her notice—or at least only captured her attention for a second—but then the shrill woman said it again, echoing her thoughts: “Stupid!”
“Sticks and stones, my love,” the man replied in a cheerful baritone. He was turning in a slow circle while still staring at the sky, so blissed out she wondered if he was high on something. (She found out later he had been: high on the great outdoors, high on the color of the sky, high on how the air smelled before a spring rain, high on being in the company of his queen. Thus: no accounting for taste.)
“Sinclair!” she cried in the tone of a woman annoyed beyond her capacity to bear such things, but the fond smile made her tone a lie. “Will you please get a grip? Stop staring up and spinning around like friggin’ Mary Tyler Moore on Nicollet Mall, okay?”
“Shush,” he said, still basking, eyes still closed, arms still stretched out, still blissed out despite (because of? No . . . impossible) the shrill blonde. “Do you know how long it has been since I was outside—”
“Twenty minutes.”
“—in a coastal city—”
“Year and a half ago, on the Cape with Marky Mark and the Fuzzy Bunch.”
“—during daylight? And you must promise never to call Michael that to his face.”
“I’m not promising anything, and okay, that thing about daylight, that’s a fair point. Also: Who can turn the world on with his big weird smiiiiile? Who can take a sucky day, and suddenly make it all seem super lame?” she sang, horribly off-key while (worse!) butchering the lyrics to the Mary Tyler Moore jingle. “Well, it’s you, Sink Lair, and you should know it! Each day you really, really blow it! Schmucks are all around and you’re driving me crazy, stop spinning around like you’re in a daze-ey . . .”
“We’re gonna stake it after all,” was his (tuneful!) response, at which point the blonde shuddered and said the most puzzling thing yet: “No matter what I do to make things right, this timeline gets worse and worse.”
Tourists, thought Fred, annoyed they’d caught her interest for even a few seconds. Proof I’d rather think about anything else except whatever mess Fehr’s in. What’s the actual line from the jingle? Ah: How will you make it on your own?
The man put his arms down and snapped his long fingers: crack ! “The phone! I need to call them.”
“Again?”
“What, again?” he replied easily, reaching into his suit jacket pocket to pull out an iPhone, sliding his fingers across it, then holding it to his ear. “It’s been hours, long lonely hours, and I—hello? Yes, may I speak with them? Yes, again.”
“You’re gonna drive the poor guy to suicide! Also again.”
“It’s me!” the tall, handsome, dignified man said,
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