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"Is that so?" he asks, amused. He immediately gets into my space, standing so close that his body is practically touching mine. His tail swats my leg and he touches my hair with one of those big, nasty claws of his. "Because—"
I clamp my hand around the heavy candle in my hand and swing it as hard as I can, aiming for his face. To my surprise, it hits, and the candle jar breaks into a million pieces of glass. "I said fuck off," I bellow. "No means no!"
It's utterly silent in the store. The avian behind the counter stares at me. The praxiian—now dripping blood all over his orangey fur—stares at me. One of the local women who's buying baking goods stares at me.
But I'm tired of apologizing for breathing the same air as everyone else. "I'm not paying for that," I snarl at the shopkeeper. "Because it should be safe for humans to fucking shop here." I whirl on the praxiian. "And you. You might think that you can push and push until no means yes, but you are fucking wrong. Besides the fact that I'm gay, I'm not interested. I've made that very clear. If you can't get that into your head, I'm going to march right over to the port authorities and file the nastiest report I possibly can about how you are harassing the locals and you'll be kicked off of this planet so fast your whiskers will spin. Got it?"
The silence continues.
After a long moment, the praxiian picks a piece of glass out of his whiskers, flicks it aside, and then walks away.
I want to collapse. But that's the wrong thing to do to show everyone I have a newfound spine, so I keep my chin up and march out of the shop, feeling as broken and in as many pieces as the candle I broke. Once I'm outside, I sag against the wall, my heart pounding so loud in my chest I swear aliens on distant planets will be able to hear it.
"So, uh, did you want to file that report or not?"
I open my eyes and another one of the mesakkah custodians is standing there in his uniform, an awkward expression on his face. Sinath, I think his name is. He's the shorter one, the one that tries to crack jokes to make everyone comfortable (and usually fails). He gives me a sheepish grin and nods his head towards the shop. "Couldn't help but overhear. You were shouting loud enough that I heard it down the street."
I shake my head, feeling as deflated as a balloon. "I'm fine. It's fine. Everything's fine. I just want to go home now."
Because there's no Haina coming here today. Or ever. I don't have a girlfriend. I don't have a lover. I'm just as alone as I ever was, and it makes me ache so deeply inside that I wonder if I'll ever feel normal again.
"Okay, well, if you need anything, Colonist Aliette, I'll be inside for the next few minutes, buying some yarn for my mate." He gives me a crooked grin.
"Ali," I correct. "My name is actually Ali. Not Aliette."
"All right. I'll get the records updated. Have a good day, Ali." He winks at me and then heads on inside, and then I'm left alone once more.
Except…I'm not really alone. There are people walking on the streets of Port, and it feels as if all of them are stopping to stare at me. I see two women paused across the way, whispering to one another. I'm sure I've met them before, and I'm sure I've forgotten their names. I suspect they're not going to forget mine, not after the show today.
And I wouldn't be surprised if one approaches me, because if there's one thing a Port resident loves, it's juicy gossip.
I take a deep, shuddering breath, closing my eyes and leaning against the wall again. "I just want to be left alone to lick my wounds," I mutter aloud. "Is that too much to ask?"
"Does that go for me, too?"
6
ALI
Haina.
I open my eyes to see her familiar face in front of me. She looks just as good as she ever has, with her bright smile and warm eyes. She's not wearing her regular pink and red uniform, but is dressed in a plain bodysuit instead.
The sight of that just reinforces that I've been lied to all along. "You're here."
"I am." She moves forward and takes my wrist gently in her grip. She turns my hand over, revealing my palm that's covered in bits of glass and blood streaming down my skin. "If this is you licking your wounds, Ali, you're doing a terrible job of it. What happened, sweetheart?"
The term of endearment—and her concern—makes me ache inside. "Am I your sweetheart or are you using me as a convenient lay?"
