The Wayfarer

Almost off this shit-barge, almost. I snatched my work gloves from my back pocket and pulled them on. The Russian stepped out of his office, put his fingers to his lips and whistled.

"All right. Listen now." The loaders were ambling around the bay, waiting, talking to one another. The Russian hawked and spat and grabbed his balls. "Enough! Shut up!"

Good riddance to this one.

"Okay, we are in the landing cue, so smoke or piss now. No more breaks till it's all gone." He jerked a thumb at the rows of crates stretching across the bay and lumbered back into his office.

I sat back on the warm spot I'd made with my ass and leaned against my crate. And soon she was there, smiling at me, showing that one crooked tooth that drove me wild. Her amber curls fell over her shoulder all the way down to her hips, just like before the war. Before the evacuation hurtled us in different directions.

I'll see her today. I couldn't sleep before I saw her, anyway. No more tag, no more chasing around the settled galaxy.

Today we would be in the same place at the same time.

The Russian's door sprung open and it was time to load. She was a smart girl and she could afford cryo. She was just napping. She knew what to do.

"Listen up!" Shouted the Russian. "There is a customs problem, just wait."

The Russian slammed the door to his office. Everyone else went back about their business, content to procrastinate. I gnashed my teeth and thumped the crate with the back of my head. Perfect, more delay.

I tried to go back to thinking about her, about that perfect moment when I could wrap my arms around her, smell her hair and crush her against me. But I couldn't get back there. The tickle of her breath on my neck was gone.

I love you. I love you. I love you. We'll rent a hotel room tonight. We'll drink champagne and fuck 'til tomorrow. Or maybe you'll be woozy from cryo and we'll skip the champagne and just fuck 'til tomorrow.

I drowsed against my crate, letting my mind wander over our future; afternoons in the arboretum, evenings on the couch, my head in her lap, her fingers scratching my scalp, three toe-headed kids running around the living room. August, Nina and Paris, in that order. We had agreed their names would be August, Nina and Paris, in that order. And there she was again, holding one of them, August. Warm light, sunlight, real sunlight shone through her hair. She bounced our boy on her hip. He giggled and let his head lull back. She held him up in the air and whirled him around, growling like a soaring engine.

The way she held him was too much. The way he giggled. The light in his eyes. The years of chasing her, always one step away from a rendezvous, always trying to find that perfect moment. All the near misses, when one of us would pass so close that we'd hear the other's heartbeats in our dreams, speeding by at light speed. So many years that should have been together. And this goddamn hulk of a ship.

She'll be in cryo.

The Russian's door opened again and I dried my face with my work gloves. He looked sick, like he'd eaten a bowl of rotten borscht. His nose ran.

"Listen up," he said, quietly. "There has been a problem."

The Russian mopped his brow and sniffled.

"After the engines failed and we dropped out of light-speed, The message we sent explaining the delay was not received. They thought we were dead. They didn't get the message. We are fifty years late and they thought we were dead. I'm sorry"