The Best of World SF by Lavie Tidhar (best romance novels of all time TXT) 📗

dialogue, not yet. The camera hovers over her shoulder, over tendrils of dark hair, which shift with the wind.

There is even wind, in EXT. MARS SURFACE. And the dress is far too impractical for any true ‘space exploration’. It reaches her ankle, shows off her arms, although no cleavage. Instead, a demure collar that reaches the chin indicates SPACE EXPLORER is a good girl. The white might have clued you in, but it never hurts to place the proper signifiers.

SPACE EXPLORER looks over her shoulder and sees a figure coming toward her, glinting under the sunlight.

Hold that shot, hold that moment, as THE HERO steps into the frame.

3

Amelia avoided her sister for three days, but on the fourth, Marta caught her before she could slip out of the apartment, cornering her by the refrigerator, which was covered with drawings made by the youngest girl. Amelia’s niece had a good imagination: the sky was never blue in Mexico City.

‘The rent is due,’ Marta said. ‘And you still owe me that money.’

Two months before, Amelia had bought a pretty new dress. It wasn’t a bargain, but it seemed she was getting another steady Friendrr client. Every week, like the arrangement with Lucía. Four hours. She bought the dress because she thought she deserved it. She hadn’t bought anything for herself in forever and she would be able to afford it now. Then that client canceled a booking, and another, and Amelia had to pay for the layaway or lose all the money she’d ponied up. So, she asked Marta for enough to make the final payment.

‘I have the rent money, not the rest. Things are slow right now,’ Amelia said. ‘I’m sure bookings will improve as we roll into December.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Marta said, sending a magnet in the shape of a watermelon slice flying into the air as she slapped her hand against the refrigerator’s door. ‘You need to get a real job that pays on time.’

‘There are no real jobs,’ Amelia replied.

‘Then what do I do every day?’

Marta was an end-of-life planner, helping arrange elaborate funerals, memorials and euthanasia packages. And yes, it was a job, but guess what? She only had it because she sucked good dick for the boss, a smarmy little man who had made a pass at Amelia the year before, when Marta took her to an office party. He had suggested a threesome with the sisters and when Amelia complained to Marta about her vomit-inducing creep of a part-time boyfriend/supervisor, Marta had the gall to tell Amelia she shouldn’t have worn such a tight skirt.

‘You need to look into the private security company I told you about,’ Marta said. ‘They are always hiring.’

‘Do I look like I can shoot a rifle?’

‘Fuck it, Amelia, it’s just standing on your feet for a few hours holding the gun, not shooting it. Surely, even you can manage that?’

Amelia swallowed a mouthful of rage. She couldn’t afford a place on her own and so she swallowed it, bile and resentment making her want to spit.

The phone rang. She almost didn’t hear it because the kids had the television on so loud and the kitchen was smack next to the living room/dining room area. It was Miguel, her broker. Friendrr called him that: Junior Social Appointment Broker. Amelia thought it was a weird, long title.

‘Hey Amelia, now, how are you doing today?’ Miguel asked in that oddly chirpy tone he employed. She’d never met him in person, but Miguel always sounded like he was smiling and his profile featured multiple shots of him grinning at different locations. The beach, a concert, an assortment of restaurants.

Miguel was an extreme positive thinker. He had told her he liked to read self-help books. He also took a lot of online courses. In the beginning, they’d bonded a bit over this, since Amelia was still trying to learn German. As the months dragged by, they both grew disenchanted.

Amelia simply wasn’t the kind of girl who could secure many clients. There were some people who were booked solid for gigs, but most of them were very good-looking. She’d heard one young woman got booked exclusively to pose for photos. The kind of ‘candid’ shots where friends gathered for a social event. Nothing candid in them. Then there were others who did all right with weddings and funerals. Both of these required an ability to cry.

Amelia wasn’t a crybaby and she wasn’t gorgeous. Her biggest issue, though, was that she simply did not inspire friendly feelings. People did not want to meet her and if they did, they did not want to meet her again. Whatever warmth or spark is required to inspire a desire for human interaction was lacking in her. She wasn’t compelling.

Miguel had told her she needed better photos, more keywords. They tried a bunch of things, but it didn’t work. Miguel, who had been excited because her science background gave her a certain versatility – some of the folks on Friendrr could hardly spell ‘cat’, the glorious, underfunded public education system at play – grew underwhelmed.

Miguel hadn’t phoned her in weeks and Amelia feared he was getting ready to drop her from Friendrr. She was probably driving his stats down.

‘I’m good,’ she said, turning her back to her sister, grateful for the interruption. She headed to the room and locked the door. ‘What’s up?’

‘I have a booking for you; you have a new client. That’s what’s up. The only thing is, it’s short notice: tonight at nine.’

‘I’m not doing anything tonight.’

‘Good. It’s in New Polanco. I’m sending you the address.’

‘Any special items?’

‘No,’ Miguel said. ‘He wants to have dinner.’

Most clients wanted ordinary things, like watching movies, as Lucía had asked, or walking together. Now and then, an oddity emerged. There had been a man who asked that she wear white gloves and sit perfectly still for a whole hour. But most baffling had been the time a client hired her to pretend she was someone else. Amelia bore a vague