Page 36 of Slow Burn

“Yeah, shocking, isn’t it?”

“It’s—” Velvet took a step forward and got a stab of protest from her feet. She kicked her shoes off and walked over to the couch, tentatively fingered a thick purple throw pillow. “It’s—cool.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” Robby answered. “Want coffee?”

All this and a kitchen, too—or at least a coffee-maker, which was the same thing. She followed the sound of Robby’s voice and came around the corner to find a big shiny room tiled in alternating white and red.

“Wow. The Purina kitchen,” Velvet blurted. Robby laughed and spooned coffee powder into a machine that looked space-age enough to make coffee on “Star Trek.” “Hey, you got any snacks? Like, chips or pretzels or something? I’m kind of hungry.”

“There’s soup. You probably don’t need to do a lot of chewing.”

“Oh. Right.” So much for her pizza fantasies. “Uh, Robby? This is—real nice of you. Really.”

Robby finished pouring water and switched on the machine; it hissed and bubbled like a flattening tire. She opened a cabinet and pulled down two mugs, contemplated them with a frown.

“Bugs or Taz?” she asked. Velvet blinked.

“Sorry?”

“Bugs Bunny or the Tasmanian Devil?”

“Uh, Taz, I guess.” Velvet accepted the mug and looked at the cartoon on the side. “Cute. Anyway, uh, thanks. Really.”

Robby looked up at her.

“I stood there,” she said quietly, “and let Sol pound the living hell out of you. Why are you thanking me?”

She didn’t wait for an answer. By the time Velvet closed her mouth, Robby had walked around the corner. Velvet stared at the Tasmanian Devil’s grinning toothy mouth.

“You,” she growled. “Wipe that smile off your face.”

Robby was in the living room, sitting on the couch, flipping through a pile of mail that looked like sales circulars and HAVE YOU SEEN ME cards. Velvet walked over to the windows and looked west, toward a tangle of neon and streetlights.

The windows were wired with intrusion alarms. Shit, who was she afraid of? Spiderman?

“Wasn’t your fault,” she said to the city, and to Robby’s reflection. “And anyway, shit, he didn’t break much. It’s not like I’m a virgin in that area, either.”

“I thought you said you were protected.”

“Well, sure. It’s kind of like a union. I mean, my shop steward’ll complain to the local, and the local’ll complain to management, and somebody’ll apologize.” Velvet shrugged. “Bureaucracy, you know?”

“The curse of the working class.”

“Yeah, that and cellulite.”

Robby laughed. Velvet decided that she might be okay after all.

In the kitchen, the coffeemaker dinged. Velvet went back and poured Bugs and Taz full, and carried Bugs back across the room to Robby, who murmured a distracted thanks and sipped while she flipped through a Christmas sale circular.

“What’s with the circus?”

“Hmm?” Robby glanced up. “Oh. I saw them in Ireland when I was ten, been going ever since. It started out to be a useful place to practice—”

“Practice what? Oh. Stealing.”

“Dipping,” Robby corrected primly. “I liked it so much I kept going just for the spectacle. Haven’t worked there in years.”

“What was it like?” Velvet sat down in the mint green armchair; it felt surprisingly comfortable. “Ireland, I mean, not the circus.”

---