Darkling Like Stars

Chapter 1

"I've decided to quit," I say as I swab coffee rings from the table.

"Uh huh," Lisa says from behind me, her voice soft and distant.

She is engrossed in a magazine, her elbows propped on the front counter next to a dripping dish rack of clean mugs. It's one of those gossip magazines, I can tell by her face—lips parted, eyes round and staring. It's the same look rubberneckers get when driving past a car accident. They want to see blood.

I toss my towel down on the table, and my hands fly to my hips. Muffled voices from the television mounted behind the counter clutter the silence.

"I'm going to give birth to kittens and move to Mars."

"Uh huh." She doesn't look up. "Hey! This says Michael Jackson was an alien!" The paper rustles as she turns the page.

I march across the cafe and yank the magazine away. Michael Jackson gazes up from the cover with giant buggy alien eyes. "You know these things cause brain damage, right?"

She grins at me, a sheet of wavy blonde hair hiding half of her pixie face. "Yeah, yeah, but it's not permanent."

"You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"

Her face scrunches. "Sorry, my brain cells were busy with all the dying."

"I'm quitting."

"What? 'Cause of Rick? Come on, Sasha. So he grabbed your ass a few times. Big deal."

I shudder. Just thinking about him makes my skin crawl. It's definitely time to move on.

Lisa laughs and flings her hair over her shoulder. "It's not that bad. It's like a compliment, especially for you. He usually doesn't go for the dark, mopey type."

"Thanks, I just threw up in my mouth. And I'm not mopey!" Of course she would put it that way, like sexual objectification is a privilege.

"Oh, not at all, Wednesday Addams." She cranks the espresso machine's steam wand full blast and polishes it vigorously—and sensuously, as always. I'm glad her face is obscured behind the billowing steam; I'm sure she's making obscene faces. And if I show even a hint of disgust she'll start in with the moaning. It's best to ignore her.

I cross to the door, switch off the open sign, and lock the door. No one will care or even notice if we close fifteen minutes early. No one comes in during these torrential storms, especially when it's this dark at only four forty-five.

Mugs clatter as Lisa stacks them on top of the espresso machine. She has moved on, then; no more porno polishing for now. I brush past her into the cramped office, scrawl, 'Rick, I quit. —Sasha Rigel,' on a sticky note, and slap it in the center of the computer screen. He'll find it in the morning.

It feels like victory.

As I exit the office, Lisa looks up from the TV. Her face is serious. She's turned up the volume and raises her voice to be heard. "Have you seen the news?" Her mouth bows in a frown.

A woman with sleek dark hair and a smart-looking suit fills the screen. Below her, white letters against a red background read: 'Update: Total missing jumps to forty-five.'

"Missing?"

"Shh!" Lisa flaps her hand at me and increases the volume. I resist the urge to cover my ears and find myself leaning closer to the screen.

The newswoman's stuffy voice fills the empty coffee shop. "—authorities are not giving us much. At present, there's no connection between the missing, except they've all vanished from the Portland metro area. The Portland police are asking anyone with information to come forward—"