Page 3 of Lorran
“Good news! Your sample was successfully matched to a Mahdfel warrior.”
“Oh, but that’s statistically improbable.” She knew the stats were too good to be true. All those articles talked about the declining number of genetic matches and how women over thirty were so unlikely to be matched that they should be removed from testing and they were wrong.
The internetlied.
The floor sort of fell out from underneath her. Not literally. Well, maybe a little. Wyn sat on the edge of her bed but slid down to the floor. With her voice sounding impossibly small, she asked, “What’s his name?”
“Lorran Rhew.”
“Lauren?”
“Lore-ran,” the person on the other said, stressing each syllable.
“Oh. That’s a nice name,” she said without thinking. Digging through her bag, she fished out the pamphlets from the volunteer center and a pen. She wrote down the information the caller rattled off and added doodles to the margins.
The caller scheduled Wyn’s pickup—on her birthday—and said that shipping containers would be delivered to her address tomorrow. Whatever she packed in the containers would be shipped to her new home, but they advised against shipping furniture or other large items. “I’d recommend packing any food items you’re going to miss. Chocolate is a popular choice. Supplies can be inconsistent off-planet.”
Off-planet. Wyn’s pen paused mid-doodle.
A shopping list sprang into her head of chocolate, tea, coffee—the good kind in the yellow vacuum-sealed bricks, those shortbread cookies with the jam centers, and not just snacks. Art supplies. Surely the tubes of watercolor paints she liked to work with could be replicated, but she wanted to try other media. Aliens had to have amazing art supplies. She remembered reading an article about luminescent, lighter-than-air pottery. The clay had been sourced from some moon. The photos of the pieces looked amazing.
It had to feel amazing to dig your fingers into the clay from another world and shape it into something never seen. Her fingers itched at the thought.
“Thank you. I’ll get on that right away,” Wyn said, ending the call.
A light knock on the door was all the warning Wyn had before Sonia barged in, holding up a sheet of paper covered in brown squares. “Which one looks like Mummy Brown to you?”
“What?”
“I know. Weird, right? You’d think it was a name picked by the marketing department, but Mummy Brown paint was made from actual mummies. Isn’t that ghastly? So,” she tapped the page, “which color best represents the dehumanization and commercializing of human flesh?”
Wyn searched the paper for dehumanized commerce but found only brown swatches. “What is it supposed to look like?”
“Not as red as burnt umber.”
That helped her not at all.
Sonia’s hair was a vivid red today. Colored wax tinted her curls a new color every few days.
Both art students in college, they met in drawing class their first semester and immediately hit it off. Wyn liked Sonia’s brash attitude. She held nothing back, good or bad, and provided balance to Wyn’s quiet nature.
Sonia worked with her in the same insurance company call center. It wasn’t the most inspiring place for two artists, but it paid the bills and gave Wyn plenty of time to let her mind wander to daydream. After Oscar left, they shared an apartment for budget reasons but also because Wyn didn’t want to rattle around an empty apartment on her own. It was a good match. Despite Sonia’s biting sarcasm, innate grumpiness, and absolutism that clashed with Wyn’s organic chaos, she had never let her down.
Sonia tilted her head and narrowed her eyes. “You’re thinking.”
“Admiring your hair. It really goes well with your sweatshirt.” Faded to the point of being no specific color, the sweatshirt hung off Sonia’s slim shoulders. The color worked with Sonia’s coppery complexion. Wyn had to pick her colors carefully or she looked washed out. She always felt a little envious of the way Sonia could just wear anything, even ratty old sweatshirts, and make it look like a fashion statement.
Finding clothes that fit Wyn’s boobs and butt was a struggle. Button-up shirts were a no-go. Too many buttons had failed to hold the straining fabric together. Making a fashion statement was too much to ask when all Wyn wanted was a pair of damn pants that fit over her hips and didn’t gap at the waist.
Sonia glanced at the phone on the bed.
Wyn casually placed her hand over the phone and the pamphlet.
“Who called?” Sonia asked.
For a moment, Wyn considered lying, which would be a shitty thing to do considering Sonia would eventually find out.
Wyn took a deep breath, ready to rip off the proverbial bandage. “I finally got myself tested. I’ve been stressing about it for months and I just had to know, so I thought I’d get it over with and know, you know? I just got the call that I’ve been matched. His name is Lorran Rhew, and I forgot to ask what planet he’s from or where I’m going, and I have to be ready to go by my birthday. They gave me some bonus money, and I want to give you half for the rent, so you won’t have to work for at least a year and just focus on your painting.” She sucked in a huge breath, holding it while she waited for her friend’s response.
