“Of course, if the bulb’s filament is exposed to the oxygen in the atmosphere, it’ll sizzle and burn out in seconds.” He screwed the bulbs into the motion detectors. Then he unwound the security lights’ power cords and plugged them into the shed’s utility socket.
Serge reached behind some plywood and pulled out a Hula-Hoop. “You know who invented summer?”
Scorpion didn’t move a muscle.
“The Wham-O Corporation.” Serge held the Hula-Hoop in one hand and the gun in the other. “Step into this.”
Scorpion lifted one leg, then the other. Serge raised the hoop up to the man’s waist. He pressed the Magnum to his nose.
“If I give this thing a spin, do you think you can shoop-shoop Hula-Hoop?”
Scorpion nodded.
“Marvelous. You seem a lot more cooperative than when I talked to you before. I knew I had caught you on a bad night. That’s my motto: Don’t be quick to judge others.”
Serge gave the Hula-Hoop a healthy spin, and the man began moving his hips.
“Hey, you’re a natural! You should see some of the kids around here with these things. You’d think they had them in the womb... Oh, but I already told you about all the kids we have playing around here. Remember? When I was saying how cars really should go slow? And while we’re on the topic, Debbie’s way too young for you. What’s the matter with women your own age?”
The hoop continued rotating, and Serge continued pointing the gun.
“Let’s see how long you can keep that thing going. I remember when I was a kid, the neighborhood record was like two hours.”
Serge grabbed a metal five-gallon gas can and slowly poured the contents across the shed’s concrete floor.
“If the Hula-Hoop falls, the motion detector will pick it up and turn on the floodlights. But they’ll only be on a moment. That’s how long it’ll take for the filaments to ignite the gasoline vapor. It’s the vapor you gotta watch out for, you know. The stuff explodes like you wouldn’t believe.”
Serge sniffed the air.
“In fact, it’s starting to smell pretty powerful in here right now. I better get going. By the way, concrete is porous, so there’s a slight chance that if you can keep the hoop going long enough, the gasoline will seep in and the fumes will dissipate. It’ll take hours, but it’s theoretically possible. And I wouldn’t try to kick the detectors out of the way because that will set them off instantly... Well, toodles!”
Scorpion was young and fit. After the first hour, it looked like clear sailing, and he became almost cocky. Then something happened that he hadn’t counted on, though Serge had. Muscle cramps. Lactic acid was building up in the tissue. Try as a he might, the hoop rotated slower and slower, and his eyes grew wider and wider.
The plastic ring fell to the floor.
Part II
Blood in the Water
Only You
by Lisa Unger
Clearwater Beach
You. Long limbs graceful, incandescent in the moonlight. The surf, lapping lazy and warm against the sugar shore. The sky. A void. Stars dying, galaxies spinning, light-years ago, their glimmer reaching us only now when it’s far too late. Our toes disappear in the silken sand, salt on our skin. You’re so still, so near. But always out of reach. Even now.
“You shouldn’t have come back here.”
Was it just a week ago now? You. Surprised to see me.
“Why would you come back here, Scottie?”
But you already knew the answer. There’s only ever been one question, one answer between us. Silly, isn’t it? When the universe is so vast. That the only important things are so small.
This place is apart. A world separate from the rest of it. Didn’t it always seem like that to you, even when we were younger and we didn’t know anything else? We’d never been anywhere, really. We were just Florida kids, living in bathing suits and flip-flops, always dragging a damp towel, or a fishing rod, or a bucket filled with shells, or some long-suffering sea creature we promised to return to the wild, and sometimes did and sometimes didn’t.
You, a sylph in a simple black sheath that draped off your thin shoulders. The gossamer strands of your haircut blunt and elegant, shaping your jaw. Your eyes a question at first, an almost-pleasant memory lingering there, and then a final, sharp accusation.
That night, just a week ago, you weren’t happy to see me.
He walked up behind you, broad where you are narrow. Dull where you are bright. That possessive hand at the small of your back. You turned and smiled at him, the glare you had for me all but fading.
“Oh, honey,” you said, voice going soft, pleasing. “You remember Scott, don’t you?”
His smile seemed earnest, blue eyes slanted as if searching memory. “Oh, right. From the summers. Hey, good to see you, man. You look great.”
That’s right. From the summers.
We all grew up here. Your father and his — founding members of this yacht club. My father the bartender, forever. These days maybe we’d call him a mixologist. But then, he was just Brian — the slow smile, the easy way he had with that shaker, the guy who could make anything they wanted and happily would.
“Wait a second,” he said, reaching out a hand.
Vineyard Vines oxford, Brooks Brothers blazer, Rolex dangling. Oh please. All the stories we try to tell each other with our possessions.
“Scottie Rayder, right?”
I waited for him to add, the bartender’s kid, or, the camp counselor — something like that, something to make me small. They always try to do that. Make you less than who you have become. I readied myself with a polite smile, returned his firm grip.
“Holy cow,” he said instead, running a hand over the close crop of his blond hair. “I heard you’re killing it. Your software company. Gaming, right? Enigma is the big one, isn’t it? The puzzle.”
His openness, his sincerity. It took me aback.
“That’s right.” I offered him a nod. “And you. A surgeon, right?”
A smile I recognized, a faux-humble squint.
“Hey, you need a new hip, I’m your man,” he said with a grin that was almost — almost — self-deprecating.
“I think I’ll try to hold onto the originals,” I answered, patting my pockets. I’m a big fan of the light banter that’s always been so easy here. Words slip off the tongue, polite laughter bubbles like sparkling wine.
“That’s a good plan,” he said with a practiced chuckle.
This conversation or one just like it has been uttered a thousand, a million times within these walls. The bar top glistened, the music — jazz, Charlie Parker maybe — ambient. Glasses, bottles stood sentry on shelves. Jewelry dangled on delicate necks and ears, wrists, glimmering.
You. Stiff, shoulders tense. Your smile was brittle. Your eyes glazed with impatience. Body turned just slightly toward the door. You couldn’t wait to move away from the conversation.
“Good to see you again, Scott,” you said. “I’m afraid we’re late to join our friends.”
Just shy of rude. Cold, certainly. Not like you at all.
He looked at you quickly, questioning, then nodded. The well-trained husband. Your fingers laced through his, and he gently led you away, casting a glance back. I offered him a farewell wave. Bradley. The one you married.
I wonder if he remembers, or if he ever knew, that you and I were in love. Once. About a light-year ago.