Cut

Party

We enter the last wagon. Music pumps through my ears and into my body. The beats mess with my heart. My chest goes woooomp woooomp woooomp. The onslaught of flavours is overwhelming.

Only minutes ago, Runner had knocked at the door to my compartment, handed me my negative TB test and told me to come and have fun. With the corners of his mouth curving upwards, he'd said, 'We might be a serious bunch most of the time, but when you find four or five of us in one spot, you can be sure we'll throw a party.'

'Why?'

He didn't seem to understand my question. 'A party or two before humanity goes down the drains cannot be such a weird idea, Micka. Wouldn't you want to shake off hard work once in a while, forget all the good-byes you have to say, and enjoy the company of whoever managed to hang around?'

When I gave him a single nod — not my most affirmative one ever — he grinned, leaned closer and said, 'There'll be smoking, drinking, dancing, and love-making until sunrise.' Then he turned around and strolled ahead.

The moment he mentioned that "make love" thing, my legs decided to walk in the other direction. My imagination keeps showing me a hundred writhing, naked bodies.

'What's wrong?' Runner calls. He squints down at me, and I pull myself together. Writhing naked bodies? Who gives a shit. I'll be shooting people soon.

Did I just think that?

Men and women fill the wagon to the brim. Their laughs and chatter trickle down my throat and demand a response. I clamp my mouth shut. The floor rocks from the moving of the train and the wild dancing. Smoke wafts through the air and mingles with scents of sweat, fruits, and...I don't even know what else. There's so much. So many word-flavours mix with scents and music, I have to focus to tell them apart. I strain my eyes but I can't find anyone without clothes, not a single naked person. I'm so relieved, I begin cackling like mad. Runner has a sense of humour I totally don't get. Next time I'll think twice before I tell him I'm a virgin.

That made no sense whatsoever. What's wrong with my brain tonight?

A few windows are slid down a crack, and the speed sucks out smoke and pushes in cold air. Runner walks through the masses and I have problems keeping up. He climbs onto some kind of stand, takes a small black button between his fingers, and holds it close to his mouth.

'Ladies and gentlemen!' thunders through the room. The dancing stops, but not the laughing, drinking, and smoking. Most people look up to him. 'A few of you have met Micka already.'

Everyone's gaze follows Runner's outstretched arm and lands on me. I'm growing hot.

'She's my apprentice now.'

Yeah. When I told him I want this, he didn't seem to like it much.

Dead silence falls, flavours dissipate. No one laughs. All eyes are on me, round like saucers. Then heads turn, and Runner gets his brunt of cold stares.

'I know you don't approve. I don't, either.' His gaze holds mine and I feel my cheeks reddening with anger. 'Micka, if anyone offers you an apprenticeship tonight, I want you to take it.' He nods at everyone in the room, puts the button back on a black box — the thing that makes the loud music — then he jumps down into the crowd.

Someone pushes a glass into my hands, claps me on my shoulder in an I'm-so-sorry way, frowns, and leaves. I sneak to an open window and stick my nose in the draft to clear my mind. I know why he did this. But still it hurts.

I search for him in the dancing crowd but can't find him. The wind ruffles my hair. The night is crisp. I nod at myself. I'll tell him the flavour of his name should we say goodbye tonight.