“Darling, bring it in here and close it.” Melanie moved to grab the door and urge him inside.
“It’s bad luck,” he said. A yellow cab flew by, spitting up old rain from the gutter—adding another layer to the puddles.
“You don’t believe in that nonsense—now get in here before you ruin your new suit.”
“Almost got it—damn.” Daniel stepped through the door, the umbrella, broken and inside out, was limp in his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said, shrugging his wide shoulders and twisting the corners of his lips up.
Melanie put her hand on his arm and reached for the ruined device. Even through the damp jacket, she could feel his warmth, his strength. “Forget it, sweetheart, we needed a new one anyway. It was ancient.”
“No—yeah. I just—I got frustrated with the stupid thing, that’s all. Tried to force it. I’ll buy you a new one tomorrow. Hey, a wedding present. I’ll get you one of those automated ones that does everything with the press of a button.”
Melanie laughed at the joke and helped Daniel out of his jacket. Normally someone would have already been here to check their coats, but the nearby stall was empty. Melanie slid the broken umbrella into a barrel full of fancier ones. With interlocked arms, the couple crossed the large entrance to the maître d’, who seemed lost in his large ledger of clientele.
“Bonsoir, Robert,” Melanie said. She was careful to slur the last half of the Frenchman’s name, dropping the t entirely and leaving the r clinging desperately to the e. Robert took the meticulous and exacting slurring of the French language to its absolute extremes.
He looked up from his book with a mask of mechanical surprise. Melanie suspected at once that he’d seen them enter, that he’d been hiding in his matrix of Washington’s who’s who of politics and law. “Mademoiselle Reynolds. What a surprise. We weren’t expecting you…” His eyes were welded to hers as he let the rest trail off. He was ignoring Daniel so blatantly, he may as well have been shining lasers on her fiancé.
The fib flipped on the lawyer switch in Melanie. She could feel the adrenaline of confrontation surge up inside. “Don’t pull that crap on me, Robert.” She stressed the t this time, ticking it between her teeth with a flick of her tongue. “I’ve eaten here every other Friday for two years. I called in and specifically requested a private table for—”
Robert held up his hands, cutting her off. “Oui. Of course. I’ll make an exception, just—merci, don’t create a scene.”
Melanie ran her hands down the sides of her blouse and over her hips, composing herself. “There’ll be no scene tonight, Robert. We’re just here to celebrate.”
There was finally a flicker of movement in the maître d’s eyes. A twitch to Daniel and back. The Frenchman’s thin lips disappeared in a grimace. “But, of course, mademoiselle. Congratulations.” He barely managed the word, and he couldn’t help but add, “I understand it was a very close decision you won. Five to four, no?”
“The important decisions are always close. Now, if you’ll show us to our table—”
“Of course. Right this way.” He grabbed two leather-bound menus and a wine list from the side of his stand. Then he made a show of looking at Daniel and smiling, but there was something unpleasant about the expression.
More bad looks followed. As they weaved through the tables, heads swiveled, tracking them with the precision of computer-guided servos. The din of jovial eating faded in the couple’s wake. The clink of excited silverware on thin china ground to a halt. Dozens of eager conversations, all competing with one another, faded into a hiss of white noise. It was the sound, not of air escaping, but of grease popping on hot metal. A buzz interspersed with spits of disgust.
“We can go somewhere else,” Daniel pleaded.
Melanie shook her head. They were led to a small two-top close to her usual table, but sticking out more in the traffic of the servers. She didn’t return any of the stares, just focused on getting seated before she answered Daniel.
The chairs were not pulled back for them; Robert waved at the spread of white cloth and meticulously arranged eating tools and strode away without a second glance. Melanie allowed Daniel to hold her chair and waited for him to settle across from her.
“We can’t let them change us, dear,” she finally explained. “If we didn’t come tonight, would it be easier next week? Or the week after? And where would you have us go, if not here?”
Daniel leaned forward, moving the extra glasses out of the way and groping for Melanie’s hand. They found each other and squeezed softly, throwing water on the grease fire popping around them.
“We could’ve gone out with my people,” Daniel said quietly. “Gone to Devo’s or Sears, or—”
“Please don’t whisper,” Melanie begged him.
“Does it sound strange?”
“No. Of course not—it’s… it’s just that I don’t care if they hear what we’re talking about.” She forced herself to say it with an even tone, but the effort made her voice sound abnormal. Mechanical. She didn’t care, but the interruption brought a halt to the conversation.
The silence that fell over their table created a pit, a depression into which a dozen hushed conversations flowed.
Unfortunately for Melanie, she’d become an expert at hearing through the noise. Twice a month, while her friends talked about things that didn’t interest her, she would sit here in Beaufort’s and try to tease single strands out of the tangle. She’d learned to concentrate on the lilt or cadence of a solitary voice, winding that conversation in, honing the ability to drown out the rest.
That skill was now a curse. And Daniel, no doubt, was hearing them as well as she. Dangerous and mean-spirited shards of conversation crowded the already-cluttered table. More utensils meant for cutting. Supreme Court. Android. Marriage. Shame. God. Unnatural. It was a corporate meeting on intolerance carried out by the finest minds in the city. A brainstorming session on hate and ignorance that sounded no more informed than the crowds outside the courthouse. Each vile and familiar word probed Melanie’s defenses, attacking the steeled nerves that convinced Daniel to come and slicing at the ones that were for communicating pain.
Daniel squeezed her hand. So gentle. The tissue around his mechanical frame was soft and warm to the touch, no different than hers. She looked up from their hands to his eyes and blinked the wetness away from her vision.
“We can go somewhere else,” he suggested again.
Melanie shook her head and pulled her hand away from his. She reached for a cylinder of crystal and saw there was no water in it. Looking around for their waiter, she fought the urge to wipe at her eyes.
The sweep of her gaze, as she scanned the room, had a repellent effect. Heads swung away with disdain. All but three who were seated right behind her. Her old table. Her old friends. She couldn’t help herself—Melanie bobbed her head slightly in greeting.
“Linda, Susan—”
She didn’t get a chance to say hello to Chloe—the woman was already accosting her. “You’re disgusting,” she spat. “You’ll burn.”
She wondered what Chloe meant, taking it literally. It took her a moment to realize her friend was speaking of the old prophecies. Superstitions she couldn’t possibly believe. She turned back to her table, the waiter forgotten.
Meanwhile, Chloe’s words stoked fires under the other tables, turning up the heat and popping the grease with force. Insults were hurled, mixed with foul language. Screwing. Bestiality. Fucking. Hell. Damnation.