The Atmospherians by Alex McElroy (reading fiction .TXT) 📗

If they couldn’t afford something, they bought it on credit, and every few months they opened new credit cards to pay off the old ones, constructing an elaborate ouroboros out of their debts. All that effort landed them on the wall: alien enough to be bought, studied, commented on. More than anything: pitied. Farther down the wall were starker depictions of woe, photographs taken by children who lived on the streets, refugee children, the children of addicts. Bidding on those started at twice the amount of the photos familiar to me.

“All proceeds support the continued efforts of K.L.I.C.K. to ensure our mission will thrive far beyond our lives.” She smiled. Flashbulbs erupted. The crowd applauded volcanically.

The photographs beamed on me like a spotlight from a guard tower. I split the crowd for the exit and didn’t look back, fearing my expression might betray shame rather than pity.

Cassandra gripped my wrist. “It’s devastating,” she said, hand on her heart. “The lives of these children make me want to weep for a week.”

I told her I didn’t feel well.

“Oh, I get it,” she said. “How could anyone feel well around photos like this?”

“It’s not the photos.”

“I’m lucky I haven’t fainted. I want to take every one of these children into my home. Oh, dear, I wish there was more to do for them than bid.”

“Bidding won’t do anything for them.”

“Pessimism is poison, Sasha. I’ll loan you some money. Pay me back whenever you—No. I’ll give you the money.”

If she didn’t know why the photos unsettled me—after all, I’d called off work to join her here—then I didn’t want to tell her. Instead, I accused K.L.I.C.K. of fraud, knowing she would be swayed by righteousness. “We don’t even know where the money is going,” I said. “Does it all go to the children or back to Claire Lance’s hair-dying fund?”

“I pulled a lot of favors to get you on the guest list.”

“I can’t participate in this,” I said.

She reluctantly agreed to leave on ethical grounds. Outside, she said, “Word of advice: open up to tolerance and forgiveness. You’re so quick to refuse things, to find reasons not to participate. You hold so many grudges. But you need to accept the world with all of its flaws.”

“Why leave if that’s what you think?”

“If the fundraiser made you uncomfortable then I want to show my support.” She draped her hands over my shoulders, leaned close, clouding me in the scent of mint and lavender. “I say this because I love you, Sasha. Your intensity can be very off-putting. People just feel it. Sy Cunningham told me about you.”

“He mentioned my name?”

“You’re always wanting something. You’re always trying.”

“I don’t think I even told him my name.”

“You didn’t. He described an antsy woman, or nervous woman. And my heart sunk when it dawned on me that it was you. People don’t like people who want something from them.”

“But I do want something from them. I want the same things you want from them: their attention, their support, their money. I need their money. Unlike you.”

“Whoops. Rewind,” she said, then contorted her mouth. She held up her palm as if carrying something and flicked away that invisible something: my comment. All was forgotten, for now. “Only by wanting nothing do we receive anything,” she said, posing, chin up. A red sedan pulled up. The passenger window buzzed down. “Cassandra Hanson?” said the driver. Cassandra slipped into the back seat. Traffic swallowed her car.

I paced in front of the venue entrance, agonizing over her comments about my intensity. The same red car paused at the curb. Cassandra stepped out.

“Did you forget something?” I asked.

“The rest of my evening.” She waved over her shoulder as she entered the building.

“Can I bum a cigarette?” someone behind me asked.

“Do I look like I smoke!” I shouted, before I saw who’d spoken.

Blake Dayes stood at my back, guitar slung on his shoulder. “That’s a relief,” he said. “My grandmother, she died of lung cancer.”

“Mine, too,” I lied. “I shouldn’t have shouted.”

“Smoking is so disrespectful,” he said. “Everyone gets so mad about manspreading, but smoking is magnitudes worse. It’s airspreading. Spreading your air into other people’s air without permission. Give me a manspreader over an airspreader any day.”

“Absolutely,” I said. Something about him made me want to agree with whatever he said.

“You know I saw you from the stage, while I was performing. You have such an arresting presence. I could barely concentrate.”

I apologized.

“Never apologize. If this is going to work, you have to promise me to never apologize.”

“If what is going to work?”

He paused. “Do you promise?”

I promised.

“Good. Now let’s get off the street. I know a great place nearby.”

“I don’t normally drink.”

“You don’t drink or you don’t drink in public?”

I smiled.

“This place is always empty,” he said. “No one will ever know.”

Normally, I resisted pickup attempts like Blake’s, with their mix of presumption and force, but the K.L.I.C.K. photos and Cassandra’s “advice” had made me pliable. Blake brought me to an underground dive full of torn black booths that smelled like acetone.

“Blake Bear!” the bartender growled when we entered.

“Get a beer,” Blake told me. “Henry’s the worst bartender in the city. He can barely scoop ice into a glass.”

“Quit hauling around that stupid guitar,” Henry told Blake. To me: “I’m guessing he hasn’t sung to you yet if you’re here. He’s no musician. His voice sounds like a car on fire.”

“I heard him perform earlier,” I said. “It was wonderful.”

Blake pointed his thumb at me. “See?”

“That’s the problem with Blake,” the bartender said. “He’s lovable—worst part about him. It conceals all his glaring and dangerous flaws.”

Oh, Henry! How I should have listened to you.

Blake flipped him off, then leaned over the bar for a back-slapping hug. The bartender’s warning only endeared me to Blake. After a night among grifters at K.L.I.C.K., I was happy to observe their intimate derision.

“Something tells me you’re both awful,” I said.

“Right on the money,” said Henry, laughing. “This one’s very perceptive.”

Over stiff whiskey sodas, parked at the