flashquake Editor's Pick
Jonette Stabbert

The Long Dark Hallway of Desire
by John Borneman

I love pulp/noir. The author has captured the voice perfectly and adapted it to sci-fi. It's well-written — short and snappy. I like the idea of a genre so often associated with a particular time period being transferred to the future.

It was over. She had her life. I had her cash.

I also had her deep browns staring down into my baby blues. She was leaning over my desk and kissing me in a way that I knew her mother wouldn't approve. I did the only thing possible in tricky life and death situations such as this. I sat there and enjoyed it.

Which was a good thing. I don't think I could have stood just then.

She broke the kiss and backed away, step by shapely step leaving me with my temperature up and my mouth open. Reaching behind her, she threw a smile my way then opened the door to my office.

The light from the hallway's lone 40 watt bulb reluctantly backlit her silk and fur wrapped figure. Oh, what a figure. The kind a man would die for — well, I almost died. That counts. Right?

"So." Her voice was hushed and husky. "I'm going to find a steak tartare and glass of champagne. You coming?"

"Erm." My usual snappy rejoinder. "No. Thanks."

Steak Tartare with Miss Loretta Conway would be more than just a fancy dinner. More than just a "farewell, good job, thanks for loaning me your kidney" kinda meal. Steak Tartare with Miss Conway would be the end of freedom. The end of independence. Of late nights at Bocchuu's dousing myself with Martian scotch and gnawing on faux peanuts. Of crawling through the muck filled sewers of Nuevo York politics. The end of amber bottle breakfasts, fifteen minute catnaps, and pulse blasters rammed up my nose with their safeties off.

She left the door open. On purpose.

I watched her turn and stroll down the hall. My head kept time with the beat as she swayed into dark shadows.

I listened. The sound of high heels clicking past empty offices. Mr. Doppler told me when she reached the elevator.

Ding.

The elevator door swooshed open.

Silence...

Of course, it didn't have to be the Tartare. I could always order a burger.

I got up, locked my office door, and ran down the long dark hallway of desire.

Copyright 2002 by John Borneman

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