[story] turn off the power
author: torino koji (torino_koji)
email: hickorysleeve [at] gmail.com
artist: redplasticglass (redplasticglass)
email: info [at] studiokrum.com
A/N: part of the Mortal Cities 'verse.
They always met in a hotel. It was never the same one twice in a row, but Kristina was convinced she'd now been to every hotel in the city. That was fine with her; she hated her apartment. The cold came through the cracks, and the radiator didn't always work. When the power went out, she was always freezing. Unless she was working that night.
There were rules for their rendezvous: they didn't talk about their days except in vague terms; and - most importantly - they left in the morning and made plans for the next meeting two weeks down the road.
Sometimes they'd have dinner. More often than not, Kristina would have just gotten off a bad shift or had her power out all night before, and so they just curled into the bed and things went the way they were meant to go.
Kristina believed there were no coincidences. When they fucked - and it was what they did, she never let Greg call it anything else - it was because it was meant to happen. Everything was for a reason.
Greg, though, didn't like the idea that something was controlling him. Kristina could say it made him uncomfortable. It was why they only fucked. Fucking was something they could both control. Something that wouldn't get out of hand. They both liked it like that.
That time they were at the Royale. Greg had called her and said that she was to put on something nice. They were going out. She'd called her neighbors until someone had picked up, and an hour before Greg showed up, Kristina was standing in the suite, holding dresses up before her body in the mirror. Every once in a while, she'd drop her arms and stare at her body: the roundness of her breasts, slowly lowering with age and gravity in general; the freckles across her collarbone; how the melanin on her stomach was two different shades and the mole on her right leg had grown again; the bulge of her lower stomach, above her pubes. She ran a hand over that bulge, pressed a finger against the scar there, from before she met Greg.
She went back to holding the dresses up before her body, not paying any attention when Greg came in. He came up behind her, touched her hips and breathed in at her neck.
"Red or black?"
His hands skittered to the front of her thighs, trailing up the skin. She stared at her reflection studiously, catching glimpses of his hands moving toward her crotch as she held one dress up and then the other. He nipped the skin high between her shoulder blades.
"Red."
She tossed the black dress onto the bed, let him keep his hands on her hips, and draped the red dress over the chair beside the mirror. Letting him hold her, she pulled on her panties and garter, then pulled on her stockings slowly, easing them up to her thighs. He clipped them to the garter as she unzipped her dress and pulled it over her head. It ruffled over his wrists. He trailed his hands up the back of her thighs, over the swell of her backside, then let the dress drop and zipped it up in the back.
"Where are we going?"
"Out to dinner."
She took a pair of earrings out of her purse, then a necklace, then a tube of lipstick her brother's girlfriend had let her borrow before she'd killed herself. It was dark violet and made her lips look like bruised grapes. When she finally looked at Greg, she noticed he was in a sharp business suit, all dark navy, with a silver tie and an onyx tie-pin. Mindlessly, she straightened his tie.
"You get a pay advance or something?"
"Promotion."
She hummed, dragged her hands down his chest from his shoulders to his waist. Her hands skated inward, toward his fly, as she leaned forward and murmured against his ear, "We could just stay in and celebrate."
"No, we have to go out. It's the promotion ceremony."
She looked up at him, then lifted a brow slowly. "You're showing me off?"
"Something like that." He kissed her, then scraped away the bits of smeared lipstick. "I'll make it worth your while."
They'd met because of her brother's girlfriend's brother, who worked as a volunteer at the hospital every couple of weeks but really worked for the government. Kristina had been complaining to the boy, leaning against the nurse's station and playing with her pens. There was no one in their wing. The boy would look at her bosom every once in a while, but then look away, bored or just disinterested (once, she'd asked if he was a fag; he'd ignored her question).
"There's a man I work with," he said. "I'll introduce you some time."
And that was Greg. They met in a coffee house, early one gray Saturday morning. Greg was shorter than she was, wore glasses, fidgeted with his sleeves, chewed his upper lip. He dressed rich. Kristina would not say she liked him instantly, but he was intelligent and he laughed when she made cynical quips about the city.
"So," she murmured as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. "What is it you do, Mister Asher?"
"I'm a lottery man." Which was generic and ominous and worrisome. Kristina felt a flight of shivers go from her knees to the small of her back, especially centered toward her crotch. He adjusted his glasses. "Burkshire said you were a nurse."
"Surgical assistant," Kristina corrected. Training for, but she didn't mention that. Greg nodded and adjusted his glasses and chewed on his lip. Kristina chuckled, soft, and said, "I liked this. We should do something some time." She pulled her palm-organizer out of her purse and clicked through it, fast and proficient.
"I have the evening off every second week," Greg put in. She smiled.
That was the first time.
The last time was after her brother's girlfriend's brother disappeared. She hadn't gone to the funeral - she hated funerals - but she sent condolences to his work and went about her business. The last time was the night Greg took her out, in her red dress and the purple lipstick, to the dinner for his promotion.
As they rode in the cab, they kissed, his lips smearing her lipstick. When the cab pulled up to the car, he got out to pay. She lingered in the back, pulled out her compact to rub away the smears around her mouth. When she stepped out of the cab, Greg put his hand low on her waist; she could barely feel it. He smiled at her, shy and uncertain; she looked at the building and frowned.
"A lottery man?"
"Administrator, now."
Greg had never said he'd worked for the government, though she should have known, since they had their mutual acquaintance to introduce them. Still, being confronted with the huge building before them, the security standing at the doors and no doubt lurking everywhere - Kristina took a second to remind herself that everything happened for a reason. They climbed the steps to the front door; Greg held it open for her.
They emptied their pockets, and Greg preceded Kristina through the metal detector. She loitered a moment as the guards looked over her things, then grit her teeth and stepped through.
Greg looked back at the small alarm.
"Ma'am, do you have anywhere else to place metallic items?" Kristina sighed and stepped back. She smiled apologetically at Greg.
"I can't go," she whispered. "You have fun. I need to get back to my apartment, anyway."
"Your apartment--? Kristina, wait."
By the clock, she was asleep twenty minutes when she heard her generator sputter into life. She sat up, startled from her sleep, felt the cold jolt in her stomach after a second that said the generator wasn't working the way it was supposed to.
Her phone rang, and went to the answering machine.
"Kristina - I'm sorry, I didn't mean to route through like this - I think it'd be best if you came back to the party. I'll get you in through the back." Greg's voice went static and then broken. "Please, Kristina."
The generator went dead, and so did the answering machine. Kristina sat there a minute, then lay back, her bed pulling her in and the darkness of sleep overtaking her again.
Hours later, Greg stood over her bed and watched her after the nurses had left, holding her cold fingers. They looked bizarre, unnatural, without the synthetic skin and ligaments over the metal 'bones' beneath.
the end
email: hickorysleeve [at] gmail.com
artist: redplasticglass (redplasticglass)
email: info [at] studiokrum.com
A/N: part of the Mortal Cities 'verse.
They always met in a hotel. It was never the same one twice in a row, but Kristina was convinced she'd now been to every hotel in the city. That was fine with her; she hated her apartment. The cold came through the cracks, and the radiator didn't always work. When the power went out, she was always freezing. Unless she was working that night.
There were rules for their rendezvous: they didn't talk about their days except in vague terms; and - most importantly - they left in the morning and made plans for the next meeting two weeks down the road.
Sometimes they'd have dinner. More often than not, Kristina would have just gotten off a bad shift or had her power out all night before, and so they just curled into the bed and things went the way they were meant to go.
Kristina believed there were no coincidences. When they fucked - and it was what they did, she never let Greg call it anything else - it was because it was meant to happen. Everything was for a reason.
Greg, though, didn't like the idea that something was controlling him. Kristina could say it made him uncomfortable. It was why they only fucked. Fucking was something they could both control. Something that wouldn't get out of hand. They both liked it like that.
That time they were at the Royale. Greg had called her and said that she was to put on something nice. They were going out. She'd called her neighbors until someone had picked up, and an hour before Greg showed up, Kristina was standing in the suite, holding dresses up before her body in the mirror. Every once in a while, she'd drop her arms and stare at her body: the roundness of her breasts, slowly lowering with age and gravity in general; the freckles across her collarbone; how the melanin on her stomach was two different shades and the mole on her right leg had grown again; the bulge of her lower stomach, above her pubes. She ran a hand over that bulge, pressed a finger against the scar there, from before she met Greg.
She went back to holding the dresses up before her body, not paying any attention when Greg came in. He came up behind her, touched her hips and breathed in at her neck.
"Red or black?"
His hands skittered to the front of her thighs, trailing up the skin. She stared at her reflection studiously, catching glimpses of his hands moving toward her crotch as she held one dress up and then the other. He nipped the skin high between her shoulder blades.
"Red."
She tossed the black dress onto the bed, let him keep his hands on her hips, and draped the red dress over the chair beside the mirror. Letting him hold her, she pulled on her panties and garter, then pulled on her stockings slowly, easing them up to her thighs. He clipped them to the garter as she unzipped her dress and pulled it over her head. It ruffled over his wrists. He trailed his hands up the back of her thighs, over the swell of her backside, then let the dress drop and zipped it up in the back.
"Where are we going?"
"Out to dinner."
She took a pair of earrings out of her purse, then a necklace, then a tube of lipstick her brother's girlfriend had let her borrow before she'd killed herself. It was dark violet and made her lips look like bruised grapes. When she finally looked at Greg, she noticed he was in a sharp business suit, all dark navy, with a silver tie and an onyx tie-pin. Mindlessly, she straightened his tie.
"You get a pay advance or something?"
"Promotion."
She hummed, dragged her hands down his chest from his shoulders to his waist. Her hands skated inward, toward his fly, as she leaned forward and murmured against his ear, "We could just stay in and celebrate."
"No, we have to go out. It's the promotion ceremony."
She looked up at him, then lifted a brow slowly. "You're showing me off?"
"Something like that." He kissed her, then scraped away the bits of smeared lipstick. "I'll make it worth your while."
They'd met because of her brother's girlfriend's brother, who worked as a volunteer at the hospital every couple of weeks but really worked for the government. Kristina had been complaining to the boy, leaning against the nurse's station and playing with her pens. There was no one in their wing. The boy would look at her bosom every once in a while, but then look away, bored or just disinterested (once, she'd asked if he was a fag; he'd ignored her question).
"There's a man I work with," he said. "I'll introduce you some time."
And that was Greg. They met in a coffee house, early one gray Saturday morning. Greg was shorter than she was, wore glasses, fidgeted with his sleeves, chewed his upper lip. He dressed rich. Kristina would not say she liked him instantly, but he was intelligent and he laughed when she made cynical quips about the city.
"So," she murmured as they stepped out onto the sidewalk. "What is it you do, Mister Asher?"
"I'm a lottery man." Which was generic and ominous and worrisome. Kristina felt a flight of shivers go from her knees to the small of her back, especially centered toward her crotch. He adjusted his glasses. "Burkshire said you were a nurse."
"Surgical assistant," Kristina corrected. Training for, but she didn't mention that. Greg nodded and adjusted his glasses and chewed on his lip. Kristina chuckled, soft, and said, "I liked this. We should do something some time." She pulled her palm-organizer out of her purse and clicked through it, fast and proficient.
"I have the evening off every second week," Greg put in. She smiled.
That was the first time.
The last time was after her brother's girlfriend's brother disappeared. She hadn't gone to the funeral - she hated funerals - but she sent condolences to his work and went about her business. The last time was the night Greg took her out, in her red dress and the purple lipstick, to the dinner for his promotion.
As they rode in the cab, they kissed, his lips smearing her lipstick. When the cab pulled up to the car, he got out to pay. She lingered in the back, pulled out her compact to rub away the smears around her mouth. When she stepped out of the cab, Greg put his hand low on her waist; she could barely feel it. He smiled at her, shy and uncertain; she looked at the building and frowned.
"A lottery man?"
"Administrator, now."
Greg had never said he'd worked for the government, though she should have known, since they had their mutual acquaintance to introduce them. Still, being confronted with the huge building before them, the security standing at the doors and no doubt lurking everywhere - Kristina took a second to remind herself that everything happened for a reason. They climbed the steps to the front door; Greg held it open for her.
They emptied their pockets, and Greg preceded Kristina through the metal detector. She loitered a moment as the guards looked over her things, then grit her teeth and stepped through.
Greg looked back at the small alarm.
"Ma'am, do you have anywhere else to place metallic items?" Kristina sighed and stepped back. She smiled apologetically at Greg.
"I can't go," she whispered. "You have fun. I need to get back to my apartment, anyway."
"Your apartment--? Kristina, wait."
By the clock, she was asleep twenty minutes when she heard her generator sputter into life. She sat up, startled from her sleep, felt the cold jolt in her stomach after a second that said the generator wasn't working the way it was supposed to.
Her phone rang, and went to the answering machine.
"Kristina - I'm sorry, I didn't mean to route through like this - I think it'd be best if you came back to the party. I'll get you in through the back." Greg's voice went static and then broken. "Please, Kristina."
The generator went dead, and so did the answering machine. Kristina sat there a minute, then lay back, her bed pulling her in and the darkness of sleep overtaking her again.
Hours later, Greg stood over her bed and watched her after the nurses had left, holding her cold fingers. They looked bizarre, unnatural, without the synthetic skin and ligaments over the metal 'bones' beneath.
the end