Solace & Taproots

1.2 - Revised

Rebecca had been in her junior year of university when the world's biggest asshole started killing billions of people to... what... make some kind of fucking socioeconomic statement? She and her boyfriend had planned to stay local for the long weekend in late November, celebrating their first "anniversary" (with a lowercase "a") by repeating their shamefully stereotypical first date at the best-reviewed neighborhood Chinese restaurant.

Mr. Tse laughed at their frequent return visits, and made a game of almost always seating them at the same table. Later that night, their "indoor celebrations" had been as hot as the meal Mr. Tse had unexpectedly refused payment for — after a few antacids and a BitTorrented bootleg of a blockbuster they'd missed because of midterms. It still really messed with her head how bittersweet the memories of that night were.

Rebecca had met Jaime the year before on one of those "shake your phone to reject someone without telling them, swipe to imply you'd boink them but only if they admitted it first" apps. She'd been having trust issues then... one brief dalliance with a cute farm boy with very responsible views on safe sex, a handful of decent enough dates that never had sequels... and then Jaime.

It was his honesty that unexpectedly won her over. His profile was clear he wanted to have a no-pressure, conversational outing before anyone's clothes came off, and the minimal level of investment caught her interest. She was surprised by his blatant and steadfast refusal to sleep with the liberal-minded college girl until, while 100% sober, she'd heard all of his up-front explanation of the bumpy road that was the last few years of his life. He'd fallen into gang life with his brother in high school, done time, but found his way into a couple of relevant "_______ Anonymous" groups. Trying to turn things around, he finished his GED, and was now working on transfer credits at two different community college campuses.

It impressed her enough for that date to land a follow up pilot episode, and eventually a multi-movie franchise deal to the complete surprise of the co-stars. He was so methodically forthright that when she pretended not to catch him poking through the Japanese cracked-glaze bowl she kept her assorted rings in on the last Saturday morning in January, she got giddy twitterpated butterflies instead of lurking doubts.

Fortunately, they both seemed to independently realize it was too early for anything involving a ring, but that didn't stop some impractical part of her from, knowing what the following winter would bring, retroactively wishing they'd plunged recklessly ahead while they had the ignorant chance. Some nights, she ached to go back, profess her unguarded adoration of him the first night, sleep with him on the second date, and marry him on the third.

Black Friday, a year later. That solipsistic rat bastard started the end of the world with virus-poisoned cash in tip jars and register drawers. How many baristas were overjoyed at the $20 holiday tip that killed them and most of their coworkers? How many sales clerks saved themselves and their families, at least for a little while, through habitual use of hand sanitizers? These were all vastly more horrific what-if's that could overshadow the more personal ones lurking in her heart, and somehow hurt less, even if she sometimes felt terrible about that.

She'd heard the mass murdering culprit had been offed by an even more deranged co-conspirator. Or infected with his own nightmare bug. Or double-tapped in the face by a superpowered ninja secret agent working to preserve truth and justice... or capitalism and the one-tenth-of-one-percenters, your choice. Consensus amongst the wildly varied rumors was he met a bad end.

Not bad enough. She'd always hated when perpetrators of terrible crimes would wreak so much hurt, and then off themselves. It felt to her like one last cowardly theft, robbing those who might find some modicum of comfort, some shred of solace, in blood soaked Hammurabic revenge. She'd certainly wait in line for her turn for... That Guy. Whatever his name was. She'd decided a several weeks back she was content not knowing his name. Like the news outlets that used to refuse to mention shooters' names, or show their face. Deny them all what we could of the legacy they coveted.