Read Online Asimov's Science Fiction: March 2014 by Penny Publications - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Penny Publications
Tags: Asimov's #458
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scarlet lips with a napkin, staining the clay-colored fabric. "I fucked the gallery owner."
Petra caught herself gaping like a fish and clicked her mouth shut. "What?"
The waiter appeared at Saffron's side. She rattled off a quick list, concluding with: "And a glass of the cava. I'm celebrating." Her teeth flashed at Petra. "And you?"
The waiter regarded her, pen poised over his pad.
"I'm not ready to order yet."
"No? You had plenty of time," Saffron said.
The waiter departed and Petra gathered her wits. "Are you saying you slept with Blake? What did that have to do with my show?"
"He was worrying about how late you were with the new work. Easy enough to tip him into believing you wouldn't deliver." She licked her lips, a delicate, satisfied cat gesture. "He wanted very much to give me a show by that point."
"Why me?"
"You were the next available slot."
"But why go so far as to have him drop me entirely?"
"That wasn't my doing. Just a bonus. Sometimes men do that sort of thing when they're embarrassed."
"What do you mean, a bonus? I haven't done anything to you."
"You're competition."
"Don't you think... don't you think as female artists we should stick together? Things are hard enough without making it worse for each other."
Saffron's laugh was knife-sharp. "Oh, sister woman person and all of that? I'm happy enough that women have come as far as they have, but I don't buy into that crap. It just gets in the way. This is a dog-eat-dog world, sister."
"But it doesn't have to be that way. We should cooperate, not compete."
"A utopia full of happy cooperation where everyone gets what they deserve without working for it? Maybe some unicorns shitting fluffy marshmallow rainbows too." Saffron's sneer distorted the taut lines of her face.
The waiter returned, looking expectant. Petra rose.
"I'm sorry," she stammered at him, and fled.
Inside her apartment, the air smelled of moist chemicals, a briny tang that bit at the inside of her nose.
She had assembled and filled every tank that had come with the kit. They filled the two bookcases under the window. More clustered on the table and kitchen cabinets. How had the mermaids taken over her life?
Kerry! She was due back that afternoon.
She didn't think about Saffron as she cleaned. Didn't think of the sneer. Of the voice. Of the confusion of clothing. Of her words. Didn't think of them.
Instead she cleared the clutter of dishes in the sink, loaded the dishwasher and set it running. She swept and then mopped the hardwood floor, and wiped the woodwork. She polished the windows with vinegar and water, using newspaper, as her mother had taught her, and put the last few boxes still unpacked in a closet. At the grocery store, she bought an armload of scarlet tulips and set them in a glass bowl filled with water and clear marbles that she set in the center of the living room.
Kerry arrived in a bustle of backpack and sacks and guitar cases, full of talk about the rock camp, the songs, the other girls. Petra listened as Kerry scrolled through her phone's photos, showing Petra shot after shot. Petra was pleased. She'd thought the camp would be good for Kerry, coax her out of her shell.
Kerry finally couldn't help but notice the mermaids.
"What are these? Some kind of art thing?" Movement caught her eye. She dropped down beside the tank on the bottom shelf. "Oh. My. God. How adorable are these?"
"They're from your father."
Kerry turned to examine the box. Her face took on a pout.
"You've opened everything!"
"Your father said to get them started for you."
"You didn't just get them started!" Kerry dropped the box on the floor. "You did it all. You took all the fun parts and did them already." She folded her arms.
Petra hadn't even considered this. She felt the pang of having offended, all with the best intentions.
"I'm sorry," she stammered. She pointed at the sprawl of notebooks on the table.
"It was all for you, though." The words were false, she realized, even
Petra caught herself gaping like a fish and clicked her mouth shut. "What?"
The waiter appeared at Saffron's side. She rattled off a quick list, concluding with: "And a glass of the cava. I'm celebrating." Her teeth flashed at Petra. "And you?"
The waiter regarded her, pen poised over his pad.
"I'm not ready to order yet."
"No? You had plenty of time," Saffron said.
The waiter departed and Petra gathered her wits. "Are you saying you slept with Blake? What did that have to do with my show?"
"He was worrying about how late you were with the new work. Easy enough to tip him into believing you wouldn't deliver." She licked her lips, a delicate, satisfied cat gesture. "He wanted very much to give me a show by that point."
"Why me?"
"You were the next available slot."
"But why go so far as to have him drop me entirely?"
"That wasn't my doing. Just a bonus. Sometimes men do that sort of thing when they're embarrassed."
"What do you mean, a bonus? I haven't done anything to you."
"You're competition."
"Don't you think... don't you think as female artists we should stick together? Things are hard enough without making it worse for each other."
Saffron's laugh was knife-sharp. "Oh, sister woman person and all of that? I'm happy enough that women have come as far as they have, but I don't buy into that crap. It just gets in the way. This is a dog-eat-dog world, sister."
"But it doesn't have to be that way. We should cooperate, not compete."
"A utopia full of happy cooperation where everyone gets what they deserve without working for it? Maybe some unicorns shitting fluffy marshmallow rainbows too." Saffron's sneer distorted the taut lines of her face.
The waiter returned, looking expectant. Petra rose.
"I'm sorry," she stammered at him, and fled.
Inside her apartment, the air smelled of moist chemicals, a briny tang that bit at the inside of her nose.
She had assembled and filled every tank that had come with the kit. They filled the two bookcases under the window. More clustered on the table and kitchen cabinets. How had the mermaids taken over her life?
Kerry! She was due back that afternoon.
She didn't think about Saffron as she cleaned. Didn't think of the sneer. Of the voice. Of the confusion of clothing. Of her words. Didn't think of them.
Instead she cleared the clutter of dishes in the sink, loaded the dishwasher and set it running. She swept and then mopped the hardwood floor, and wiped the woodwork. She polished the windows with vinegar and water, using newspaper, as her mother had taught her, and put the last few boxes still unpacked in a closet. At the grocery store, she bought an armload of scarlet tulips and set them in a glass bowl filled with water and clear marbles that she set in the center of the living room.
Kerry arrived in a bustle of backpack and sacks and guitar cases, full of talk about the rock camp, the songs, the other girls. Petra listened as Kerry scrolled through her phone's photos, showing Petra shot after shot. Petra was pleased. She'd thought the camp would be good for Kerry, coax her out of her shell.
Kerry finally couldn't help but notice the mermaids.
"What are these? Some kind of art thing?" Movement caught her eye. She dropped down beside the tank on the bottom shelf. "Oh. My. God. How adorable are these?"
"They're from your father."
Kerry turned to examine the box. Her face took on a pout.
"You've opened everything!"
"Your father said to get them started for you."
"You didn't just get them started!" Kerry dropped the box on the floor. "You did it all. You took all the fun parts and did them already." She folded her arms.
Petra hadn't even considered this. She felt the pang of having offended, all with the best intentions.
"I'm sorry," she stammered. She pointed at the sprawl of notebooks on the table.
"It was all for you, though." The words were false, she realized, even
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