Continued:-
The door opened. Then the inner grill. Mani in a plain faded white tee. He had not shaved. Grey at the sides, short, that little scar on his left eyebrow you could only see from the front. He looked bigger from the front. The white tee was thin from many washes; you could see the shape of his shoulders through it, the solid frame that had never gone soft. He looked at her and his eyebrows came together. Confusion. He didn't know her from the front. From the back chasm slice, yes, maybe a silhouette. From the front, she was new.
"Yes?" His voice was low, a little hoarse, like he hadn't used it since morning. Indira held up the pink slab with both hands, like an offering. Like a girl at a temple. "Uncle... sorry, sir. You are Mani sir? I am Indira, two pods behind? My cousin Kumar... he said you know systems. My holo is stuck since yesterday. I thought if you could see..." She let the sentence die. It was a bad lie. Her hands were shaking. He reached out. His fingers brushed hers. Dry, warm skin for half a second. It should have been nothing in that recycled dome heat.
For Indira, it was a live wire. A sharp, tingling jolt shot from the tips of her fingers straight up her arm, snapped at her elbow, then her shoulder, then down her spine like lightning finding a tree. Her scalp prickled under her tied-up hair where her pink scrunchie held it high. A shiver ran from the top of her head clean to her toes and pooled low in her stomach, making her knees feel watery, making her breath catch. She gasped. Too loud. Too honest. Mani didn't flinch. His hand was steady. He took the slab like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't just sent electricity through her whole body and not known it. "Corby architecture," he said. Almost a laugh, but not unkind, his eyes softening. "Old model. Antique."
"Yes. I work in Kulim. Fab line. Salary not much. Use this only," she said. Her voice came out small, all her practiced cool gone. Her fingers were still buzzing where he had touched, as if his touch had left a little sun there. He turned the slab over, pressed the power node long. The holo stayed white, then black, then white again. "Battery or stack hang. I can try." "I can pay, sir," she said quickly, because she didn't know what else to say to keep him talking. That made him look up.
Really look. For the first time in three months of watching him from two pods down through a slice of chasm that was never supposed to exist, he really looked at her. At her tall frame, at her black tee that fit properly, at her eyes that were too bright. "Come inside," he said. "Wait five minutes. I check." Inside. That word landed like a secret. She stepped over the threshold, and the hatch hissed shut behind her. Inside it was cool, curtains thick, blackout fabric that kept the dome's eternal day out, a blade of light cutting across like a knife.
To her left, an English-style small counter, dark wood that shouldn't exist in a printed hab, bottles lined, glasses upside down, small fridge humming that soft 2500 hum. Two high bar stools, red leather, chrome base with circular footrest, just like in the old vids. In the center, a full grav-pool table, green felt, balls racked neat, two cues crossed like they were waiting. Against the far wall, a long working table, two black low-backed office chairs, two desktops, big monitors, holo-windows black with green text running fast, wires tied neat with clips. Methodical. Precise. Like his laundry. Like his soul.
The air smelled like him. Coffee and faint sandalwood vapor and clean cotton. "Your back hatch," he said without turning around, typing fast, fingers flying. "You have a good view of my yard." Indira's blood went cold, then hot. He knew. "I... sometimes I see you... smoke in the morning..." she whispered her voice barely there. "I know," he said, and he didn't sound angry. He sounded... something else. Resigned and a little amused and a little lonely. Then he turned around. Held her pink slab. It was on now, flower wallpaper glowing, little pink lotuses floating. "It was just battery hang. I reset. Don't pull battery when slab is on." He held it out. She had to lean forward. Her hand shaking so badly she thought she might drop it. Five minutes were supposed to be five minutes. She didn't want them to end.
Chapter 3 - The White Shirt
Indira stood frozen just inside the hatch, her pink slab now in his hand, her mouth slightly open, and her heart doing a stupid, loud thump she was sure he could hear over the recycler. "You... you have a bar?" she said, looking at the dark wood, at the red stools that had always been empty when she looked from her galley viewport. In Pod C-09, in a hab ring where everyone had a white galley and a fold-down table, he had built a 1960s English pub. Mani closed the front hatch behind her. Click.
That click sealed them in from the Ring. He pulled out one of the high bar stools, then pointed to one of the nice office chairs near the long table. She sat on the edge. It still held a little warmth from where he had sat. That warmth made her dizzy. He sat in the other chair. Close. Too close. His knee almost touched hers when he rolled forward to plug her slab into his stack with a white cable that glowed at the tip. The monitors woke. Black windows with green text running fast like rain. He typed fast, but she couldn't look at the code. She could only look at the side of his face, at the grey stubble, at the way his white tee stretched over his broad back. And as she reached for the slab, her eyes for the first time dropped past his desk, past the neat cable clips, to the floor behind his monitors, where that single blade of harsh 11 a.m. dome-light cut through the thick curtain gap and fell across the wood work table. And in that blade of light, something was lying there. A small folded white shirt. Familiar shape. Same type as the one she had taken, same frayed collar, same softness. Indira's fingers froze mid-air.
Breath knocked out of her lungs. Her mind raced. She knew exactly where the real stolen bundle was hidden at the bottom of her own laundry bin under her fab uniforms at home, still smelling like rain and him. So this could not be it. This must be another one. He owns many of the same. He bought a pack of ten faded whites in 2498 and wears them till they die. Mani slowly picked it up with two fingers, like he was handling something delicate. His old white shirt. Washed. Folded. A duplicate. Clean. "Laundry," he said, almost to himself. "I keep forgetting on the table." He placed her pink slab fixed, flower wallpaper glowing gently on the long working table next to the two big monitors. And he placed the folded white shirt next to it. Side by side. Her pink and his white.
That small touch cotton of his white tee against cotton of her black tee as he leaned sent that live wire jolt through her again, but slower this time, deeper, staying. "What do you want to do now?" he asked quietly, his voice low and hoarse, not looking at the monitors anymore but at her. "I don't want to go back yet," she said. Five minutes were long over. Five minutes had become ten, and ten wanted to become an hour. She could feel her sister's pod, her sister's baby, her sister's life waiting for her two pods down, but here in this too-big, too-quiet hab built for more than one, time behaved differently.
It stretched. He didn't tell her to go. He didn't tell her to stay either. He just let the silence sit between them, warm and humming like his Frigidaire. "I thought you would be angry," she whispered, staring at the folded shirt. "If you knew I watched." "I watch the guava tree," he said. "You watch me watching the guava tree. We both watch something to not feel alone." That sentence undid her. Tears pricked, stupid and sudden. He reached out, not to touch her hand, but to push the glass of reclaimed water a little closer to her. His fingers left a faint warm print on the cold glass. She took it with both hands. Her pink scrunchie had slipped a little. A strand of black hair fell. He didn't fix it. He let her be nervous. For the first time in eight months, she wasn't watching him from a slice that was never supposed to exist. She was here, in the slice itself.
Next Chapter 4
Disclaimer
This work of fiction set in 2500, written in 2026. All characters are 18+ consenting adults. What is an infraction in Dome C-7 is just longing on Earth. Please read as a story about two lonely people finding a table that fits exactly two.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, habs, domes, corporations, and incidents are fictitious or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual habitations is purely coincidental.
Both central characters are consenting adults (Female 22, Male 52). This story depicts a consensual age-gap relationship between adults. It does not encourage, endorse, or romanticize non-consensual behavior, theft, voyeurism, or workplace misconduct. Reader discretion is advised. The narrative contains themes of loneliness, longing, and intimacy. No explicit sexual content involving minors is present, implied, or intended.
Nganasegaran (tapessam@gmail.com) is a content creator under the Newswav Creator programme, where you get to express yourself, be a citizen journalist, and at the same time monetize your content & reach millions of users on Newswav. Log in to creator.newswav.com and become a Newswav Creator now!
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