Page 29 of 10 Things I Hate About Zombies

‘I’ve wanted to do that for so long,’ he murmured. ‘I’m sorry, I should’ve asked. Is it all right if—’

Zoey kissed him again, removing any question from the equation.

‘Oi, couple in the stairwell, can it,’ came a voice over the loudspeaker. ‘You’re making the CCTV blush.’

‘Wow, we’re in Foucault’s Panopticon,’ whispered Nick. ‘C’mon.’

‘And in front of your dog, too,’ added the disembodied voice. ‘Dogs can’t consent.’

Nick led a blushing Zoey down the last few steps to the tiniest performance space she’d ever seen. It was about the size of the stand-up comedy room from her anxiety nightmares: a microphone on a tiny podium in front of three narrow rows of folding chairs. A few small groups perched awkwardly about, doing everything in their power not to sit in the front row. Zoey waved awkwardly at a guy she recognised from the Whole Foods on Burnside.

‘Hey, it’s Tony’s Chocolonely girl.’ The guy nudged his friends as he pointed at Zoey. ‘She’s the one who got me onto it.’

One of them gave her a thumbs up. ‘Fair trade for life.’

‘Yeah, but Moonstruck, anyone?’

The little group started arguing at length about chocolate.

‘Is this where we die?’ whispered Zoey, trying to change the subject away from her Tony;s Chocolonely addiction.

‘In the event of a fire, then probably,’ said Nick. ‘Although I did notice the convenient fire-hydrant placement out front.’

A portly guy in a floor-length cardigan pounced on them with a laminated menu. ‘Good evening! How are we for cocktails? I really recommend a cocktail. Two if you’re performing. Three if you’re just listening. Assuming you’re taking the MAX like responsible drunkards.’

Zoey squinted at the menu, which looked to have been printed at the C.C. Stern Type Foundry Museum. ‘Um, two … chocolate martinis?’

Cardigan Guy disappeared into a side room, reappearing moments later with two plastic picnicware cups brimming with a chocolatey mess of a cocktail.

‘Wow, strong,’ said Nick, as he sipped through a striped paper straw.

‘You’d better chug it before that straw disintegrates,’ said Zoey. ‘Biggest issue I have at the smoothie shop.’

‘If that’s the worst you’re dealing with, you’re doing just fine.’

Zoey shrugged. ‘It’s not quite what I told my school guidance counsellor I’d be doing, but it leaves plenty of time for reading. And walking around listening to audio lectures. Also the people-watching is unrivalled.’

‘Almost as good as the riverfront market?’

‘Fewer trumpet-playing unicyclists and sepsis-inviting kayakers.’

The lights flashed awkwardly, strobed a few times, then dimmed. There was a squeal of feedback as Cardigan Guy grabbed the microphone. Alice whined.

‘People and folks and Australian cattle dog,’ announced Cardigan Guy. ‘Thank you for coming out on this fabulous Thursday evening. Shout-out to our mime for xir excellent advertising, too.’

‘Fucking mimes,’ whispered Zoey, stooping to pat Alice.

Nick nodded. ‘I’m on your side here. Although I did read Marcel Marceau’s biography in order to understand the enemy.’

Well, damn. This was just too much. How was Zoey supposed to resist a handsome lumberjack who was also well read? She knew that not all that glittered was gold, but it was very hard to look past said glitter right now.

‘Moment of truth.’ Nick nudged Zoey with his knee as the first poet was announced. Zoey quivered at the warmth of him against her.

A ghostly-looking guy in a wide-brimmed hat and clothes apparently ripped straight from a graveside widow sloped up to the stage. He muttered into the microphone for a few minutes, then bobbed his head and returned to his seat in the row behind Nick and Zoey. The audience clapped thoughtfully, even though there was no way anyone had understood a single word. Next up was a girl who delivered an impassioned performance in what Google Translate informed Zoey was Esperanto. Third was a trio dressed in dad-core outfits who disinterestedly passed the mic between them like detached Beastie Boys.

‘Shit,’ said Zoey, when Cardigan Guy waved the mic around looking for his next victim. ‘We’re the only ones not performing. Should we be performing?’

‘I’m happy to buy you another chocolate martini, if that’s what it’ll take.’ Nick held up a finger at their festive emcee.