Cally's War

It had been a hard day of shopping. She had dropped most of her packages off at the freight loading zone. The shuttle pilot had asked about her injuries. Fortunately, she’d been able to explain them away as injuries from the mugging — mostly sprains and bruises that had looked worse than they were. They hadn’t seen her at all in over a week, so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.

Granpa had quit worrying so much once she checked back in and he had her back on e-mail and knew her plans.

She had set herself one firm homework assignment for this evening. She had never been less in a partying mood in her life, but by God she was going to sit in a bar and take one full drink, without chugging it, before she found quarters for the night. The freight shuttle wouldn’t be taking its next load up until early afternoon tomorrow.

Hell, she might just stay dirtside for a few days. Or not. One day at a time.

She was standing in front of a bar the new buckley said was commonly frequented by freighter crews and others on the way from here to there. Her black catsuit was likely to get her quite a bit of attention, but she had seen it in the shop and hadn’t been able to resist it for sentimental reasons. This one fit a little better than the last one — she’d lost weight over the past two weeks, between one thing and another. One day at a time. Hell, one minute at a time. I will go in and order a drink. One drink in a social place. Then I can go find some quarters to hide in for the night.

It wasn’t the happiest drink she’d ever had. She found herself ditching the occasional pest who tried to pick her up and desultorily sipping at the strawberry margarita in front of her, resisting the temptation to guzzle it just so she could leave. I should have known it was too good to last. No, dammit! One day at a time.

She heard another damn pest walk up to interrupt her drink and sighed.

“Is this seat taken?” he asked.

“It is unless you can lick your own eyebrows!” Oh, God. Why did I have to say that.

“How do you think I do my hair?”

Her sudden grip on his hand was white-knuckled for a few moments before softening. There had to have been a good reason. After all, there often was for this kind of thing.