Continued: Chapter 4 - At The Bar :-
The pool table was between them and the hatch now, green and glowing under the three silver dome lamps. Indira didn't remember getting up from the two black office chairs. One minute she was frozen staring at the folded white tee lying in the blade of light — a duplicate, not her stolen bundle — and the next, Mani was standing, saying something about her hands shaking, and guiding her with a light touch on the elbow, dry and warm. "Come. Cold water. Or..." He walked to the bar. The real bar. The wooden one at the back with the bottles lit up behind it and the two red high stools that had always been empty when she looked from her galley viewport.
He pulled one of the red stools out. Metal legs scraped lightly on mag-wood floor, a sound that felt intimate. "Sit." Indira sat. The stool was high. Higher than she expected. Her black tee rode up just a little and she tugged it down fast, her cheeks pink. Her feet in her old slippers didn't quite touch the floor, so she hooked them on the chrome ring. Her blue jeans tight against her thighs. The bar counter was right at her chest, solid wood, polished from years of elbows, years of him alone. Mani went behind the bar. Like he belonged there, like he had been a bartender in another life before he was a systems architect. He took two short, heavy glasses from the shelf. Glass clinked on wood, a beautiful sound. "Barley. No alcohol. Like lemon," he said. He opened the light blue Frigidaire — door with silver handles that hissed — and took out a small brown bottle and a can of soda. He poured. Steady hands that never shook. He poured one for her, one for him. Pushed hers across the wood towards her. His fingers brushed the glass. Her fingers were already there.
That touch again. But this time, on the high stool, with the bar between them, it wasn't a sharp electric jolt. It was slow. It stayed. It spread. Indira's breath got stuck somewhere low in her chest, between her ribs. This was the man she had watched for almost eight months. From her galley viewport, while washing plates. From the chasm, when she walked to the shuttle at 06:15 and he was already on his deck with coffee and vapor and that ashtray full to the top, untouched by rain. She took the glass with both hands because one hand would shake. The glass was cold. Condensation wet on her short nails, on her work-rough knuckles. "Thank you, Mani- anna," she whispered, then bit her lip hard because she had said anna. He smiled.
Just a little. At the corner of his mouth, under the grey stubble. A smile that changed his whole face from lonely to warm. "Don't call anna," he said quietly, his eyes holding hers. "Mani enough." Mani. Just Mani. The name felt big in her mouth, like a fruit. "Mani," she tried. Her voice came out small and breathy. He looked up from pouring. Their eyes met over the bar. Over two cold barley drinks sweating in the dome light. A woman's heart, when she has admired a man from afar for a long time, does not fall in one big moment. It falls in small clicks. The click of a bar stool scraping. The click of a glass pushed across wood. The click of a man saying "Mani enough" like he was giving her something precious he had never given anyone else. She sipped. It was tart and sweet and cold and it tasted like his hab.
"I like your bar," she whispered. "It's too big for one," he said. "It doesn't feel big now," she said, brave, looking at the second red stool pulled close to hers. He didn't answer. He just let his hand rest on the bar near hers, not touching, but close enough that she could feel the heat. Outside, the dome hummed. Inside, the Frigidaire hummed. Two hums, two people who had been humming alone for a long time, finally in tune.
Chapter 5 - Hungry
The barley drink was cold in her hands but it wasn't doing anything for the heat in her chest. That heat was spreading down, making her knees weak on the chrome footrest. Indira sat on the nice chrome swivel red bar stool — both stools matching, chrome base with circular footrest and armrests — bare feet hooked on the ring, no footwear, because in a hab you don't wear footwear inside, mag-dust protocol. Behind her, the green pool table, balls racked, cues crossed. The clean dart board on the grey paneled wall, the light blue Frigidaire humming at the side of the wooden bar, the long work table with dual monitors and the small side table extension where his white tee had been.
Her stomach growled. Loud. A raw, honest sound that made her want to disappear into the reclamation vent. Mani, early fifties, white tee, blue jeans, barefoot, grey at the sides, grey stubble, broad shoulders that filled the galley door, leaned over the bar and chuckled — not mean, low and warm, a sound that vibrated in his chest. "Hungry ah?" he said, the ah soft, Malaysian even in 2500. Indira wanted to disappear. "I... I should go home. My sister..." But she didn't move. She couldn't. Her body had decided before her mind. "I'm hungry too," he said, pushing up from the bar, bare feet on the warm mag-wood floor that was heated from below. "Whole morning no eat. You join me for lunch? Nothing great. Some instant noodles fried with a couple of vegetarian sausages and sunny side down eggs. You like?" Indira nodded fast, too fast, like a girl offered a feast.
"Yes." "Come. Kitchen." She followed him behind the bar, bare feet silent on the wood, pink scrunchie bobbing high on her ponytail. And then — wow. Out of this world kitchen. Coffered ceiling with pendant lights that glowed amber, white marble counters that were actually printed marble, huge island with black top, professional induction range with red knobs, hardwood floor warm, purple lilacs by the viewport — but not dull white. That was the shock. Light green. Fresh, bright light green. The color a woman loves more than any other. The color of new leaves in the bio-dome. Light green mint pistachio cabinets with brushed brass gold handles, white subway backsplash, white trim, sunlight pouring in from the dome skin. Not dull at all.
Cheerful, airy, happy. Bowls of lemons and limes on the island, eucalyptus vase, purple flowers matching her scrunchie. The light green made the whole kitchen glow like spring. "This... light green!" Indira gasped, bare feet on the warm hardwood, hands over her mouth, eyes wide like a child. “You painted light green! So beautiful! Not dull at all!”
Mani lit the blue flame — real flame, he insisted on gas, even in 2500. He never got married. Never. Bachelor since his thirties, by choice. No wife, no ex-wife. He built this hab for himself, and he painted it light green because he thought a home should feel warm even if only one person lives in it. "White was dull," he said, his back to her, shoulders moving as he sliced. "I changed to light green myself. Women love light green, no? Fresh. More homely. I like light green. People said why bachelor put light green. I said, why not? House should feel warm." She stood close beside him at the stove, black tee next to white tee, both barefoot, close enough that she could see the grey hairs on his forearm, the veins on his hands. He poured oil, sliced vegetarian sausages pink and soft, sizzle loud, fragrant.
Cracked two eggs sunny side down, yolks golden and trembling, not broken, perfect circles like little suns. Tossed the instant noodles high, steam curling up to the coffered ceiling, catching the pendant light. He plated the noodles in two white plates, steaming, fried noodles with vegetarian sausages and sunny side down eggs right on top, green onions sprinkled like confetti. He slid one plate to her across the light green island, and then held his own. Their fingers brushed over warm ceramic, and that brush lingered. "Eat," he whispered, looking down at her, close, steam between them making his eyes soft. "Before cold." She took a bite standing there, and moaned without meaning to. Salty and charred and soft. He watched her eat like it was the best thing he had ever seen in his empty hab.
Next Chapter 6 & 7
Disclaimer
This is a 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 behaviour, 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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