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couch
It was a new year's eve party, ten minutes before midnight. I'd been to some wild new year's eve bashes in the past few years, but this one was different. Worse. More frenzied. Desperate. We were out at Karl's place, on the far side of the Dandenong mountains. He lived there, he said, because when the Third World War starts, he wanted to have a mountain between him and the nearest city. Someone invariably pointed out that Melbourne wasn't a target, and that he should really worry about that American base that was practically in his own back yard, and thus the discussions went, back and forth ... while the semi-drunk debaters went at it, I wandered over to the fireplace with a large drink in my hand. It seemed that nuclear war was all people talked about, these days; I supposed that with the situation in the Middle East (again) and the way the Chinese were acting, most other topics just paled into insignificance. This was a real, old-fashioned open fire-place, stacked with logs and crackling away merrily. It probably didn't heat the house worth a damn, but it looked wonderful. I thought of those videotapes of an open fireplace that the entrenched urbanites watched, and smiled a superior smile. There was nothing like the real thing; the furious heat, the aroma, and the sound of logs settling in the ash as they were consumed. For a long moment, my gaze was lost in the dancing flames, the glowing coals; I would watch one flare up bright orange-red, only to die down again a few moments later, to be succeeded by another, nearby. I shook my head to clear it of the spell. In front of the fire was an old leather couch. It was close enough to be comfortably warmed by the fire, and not too close to be affected by the smoke. Sitting on the end of the couch with a mostly-empty bottle of Lochan Ora was the girl I'd come to this party with. She had her eyes closed, and her bare feet outstretched to take in the warmth of the fire. I sat down next to her, staring at the way the firelight was refracted in the depths of my drink. The fire's warmth washed over me, and as the chill I'd accumulated from the rest of the house vanished, I wondered why everyone else hadn't discovered this spot. My question was answered as a course of drunken shouts came from outside. "They sound like they're having fun," I commented lamely. She snorted and took a drag from the bottle. "Let them. They may as well enjoy themselves while they can." I was about to ask her what she meant when I felt the vague sense of desperation re-assert itself. Something was going on, something important, and we all sensed it subconsciously. I took my pocket TV out of my jacket and turned it on. The reception up here was pretty bad until I patched it into Karl's dish. He had it tuned to some strange American Satellite News system; it looked like it was run by college students for the fun of it. I turned the sound down and put it on the floor. "You can feel it, too ... can't you?" she said. It wasn't a question. Very self-consciously, I finished my drink and dropped the glass. It rolled over the carpet and fetched up against the stonework that ridged the fireplace. "Yeah," I said finally. I watched the tiny figures on the tiny screen race about maniacally; they seemed upset about something. One student grabbed a microphone and was shouting at the camera. She looked about her wildly, in outright fear; suddenly, the picture snowed over and the signal dropped out. "Oh, good," I muttered, "it's finally starting." "What did you say?" she asked me as the dim lights towards the back of Karl's living room dimmed, flickered and went out, leaving the two of us in the warmth of the fire. I took her in my arms and held her close. "It doesn't matter," I said reassuringly. |
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