No one is coming. But she thought she’d try the signal anyway.
“Is that you, Prydonia?” asks the pale little boy in her mini-skirted lap. Her fingers, long and white and clean, prance like a butterfly over his sweltering forehead, every nerve of those digits reading necessity into the deuterium-thick droplets collecting on his skin.
“The Laneet, they bleed white, and sweat heavy water when they die in a certain way, did you know?” the boy continues, blinking crystalline peridots at her for a moment, before those luscious orbs close, and his little body quakes with little shivers.
His peripheral nerves are shutting down, because his small fingers curl in a rictus, the steadfast grip of a weak and traitor claw scrabbling in the dark for a random stuffed toy. He can no longer feel them though, so it’s all right.
One side of his face slides down suddenly, a little to the left like one of Dali’s clocks. He quirks wholly in the cup of her grasp, stiffening, a dying saguaro in knee pants.
Her tears leak like oil over her blouse, staining the robin’s egg ruff a dark rain blue, in places.
“Did you have to do it this way, daddy?” she breathes, feeling her constrictor throat seize up into a dirty, mixed up knot entirely similar to the whirlwinds of junk swallowed by polluted rivers.
Georgie Plombkins just smiles; of course, it’s a half-smile now, literally the right half of a smile, what with the stroke coming on again. There, like a nest of fibers in the chalice of her hands, his floppy black hair is turning to snow, pitch melting into cloudy day.
Soon there is the sense of liquid running under her heels, lapping silently in an impatient rush against the shiny lacquer. So much reminds her of the crashing waves, lately.
Her eyes close in a blink, and suddenly his young hand is making chaste pilgrimage over the petite mounds of her breasts, where they hang well beneath the blue blue blouse- juicy grapes draped on a vine out of any fox’s reach, if they want any good should come to them. His digits tangle on the hem, resting for a moment near the cried-upon ruff; but he regains himself, and she squirms as his dusty palm flattens between her two hearts.
Death throes, then, and soon after, not even the Ring she slipped back on his finger remains.