Throwing caution to the wind: Their illicit romance continues

"You stink."

I turned my head to see the man beside me in the lift take another step away, as far as he could go without making contact with the wall.

"Excuse me?" I responded, returning his glare.

His thick eyebrows joined into one as he wrinkled his bulbous nose. "When was the last time you decontaminated?"

"Not that it's any of your business, but I am on my way to do so right now."

"It's a public health hazard, you know, to go too long between cleanings."

"I'm aware of that. I had a physical task to perform today and haven't had the opportunity to decontaminate. I'm sorry if my sweat offends you."

"It's more than sweat. I don't know what it is, but now I have to go straight to the decontaminator myself, just to get your stink off me," he sneered, stepping out of the lift.

Relieved he was finally gone, I let out a deep breath. I hoped I'd handled the situation satisfactorily, not aroused suspicion. I knew I stank, and that it wasn't from sweat. At least, not entirely.

When Grant and I were in the storage room, we hadn't noticed that we smelled any differently. But the moment we stepped out into the corridor, we detected an odor at once, and it was coming from us.

We smelled of each other, a combination of sweat, body fluids and our own personal fragrances. It was similar to what my body released when I secretly masturbated in the privacy of my bunk, only amplified. I'd never had to worry about the smell before; I always decontaminated before leaving home.

The lingering scent of Grant's body mixed with mine aroused my senses, not offended them. It was heady and penetrating, a potent reminder of our sexual intercourse.

Still, we understood we had to decontaminate as quickly as possible, lest someone notice our aroma, thereby arousing suspicions as to its source. We decided separating and visiting chambers on different floors would be safer than being seen together, both of us sharing the same unusual odor, even if the risk of one of us encountering another person might be greater. If we were alone when confronted, it could be explained away more easily.

My personal preference would have been to go home and crawl into bed, masturbate, then fall to sleep with the scent of our union filling my lungs. But I dared not indulge in such fantasies.

With relief and regret I arrived at the decontaminator and stepped inside.

"I wish there were some way to take the box, or at least the data chip, with us," I said to Grant the next morning. "I'm especially going to miss listening to music."

"I know," he replied, his face sober. "After today it won't be so easy to get you down here, but right now I don't think we should risk removing the chip from this room. It's too important."

I nodded. We stood in silence, looking down at our uncovered hands, clasped together. In a matter of days, our whole lives had changed, and they were about to change again. "Oh Grant, what are we going to do?" I asked in despair. "I don't think I can bear not seeing you every day."

He drew me into his arms and kissed me. "We'll find a way to be together, Astrid. It may not be every day, but we'll find a way to see each other as often as possible."

The next day Grant's supervisor and the rest of his department would be back from their dig in the ruins outside the city, and I would be back at the Office of Historical Records running Oliver's errands.

Even though we knew it was a risk to engage in sexual intercourse again after my encounter with the stranger in the lift, we couldn't help ourselves. We didn't know when the next time would be where we could spend the entire day together, to lay in each other's arms, to talk and touch in relative safety.

After today, we would be relegated to public places and the occasional short liaison in one of our flats. It was always risky to meet at home, but one advantage was that it allowed us to decontaminate before leaving, thereby eliminating any olfactory evidence. But the visits could never be long—less than an hour—nor too frequent. We might be able to pull it off once a month, provided we alternated flats.

It was all so unfair.

Because it was not safe to talk openly over communication signals, while we worked we conceived of a code to use when we called each other.

We decided a greeting like "Good morning" meant "Can we meet today?" If the other responded in kind, it confirmed a rendezvous might be possible. Replying with "Hi" told the other we could not do so today, but we were able to discuss an alternative time and venue. "Hello" signaled "I can't meet and I can't discuss it right now."

Because it was virtually deserted, we agreed the arboretum would be the best overall meeting place, the default location unless otherwise indicated. Even so, approaching from different directions and staggering our arrival times would be a necessary evil to keep us from being too predictable.

It wasn't that we couldn't be seen together; I met up with Errol and Xen once, occasionally even twice a week. But I'd known them for more than five years and I'd met Grant only three weeks ago. Outside of work, people rarely interacted on a daily basis. To do so socially at the same frequency would draw far too much attention.

The first week apart was the hardest. As difficult as it had been those two weeks between our chance encounter in the lift and our first open conversation, it was nothing compared to the torture of being separated after spending three days sharing every part of ourselves, including our bodies, with another human being for the first time in our lives. After work I came straight home, undressed, masturbated under the covers and cried myself to sleep. I thought my heart would break from missing him.

After my friends and even Oliver mentioned that I seemed to be losing weight, I decided, a month later, it was time to introduce Grant to my friends. I knew it was asking a lot of Errol and Xen to accept another person into our social group after so short a time, but I had to find a way to see Grant in person more often, even if I couldn't touch him.

"I can't say I'm comfortable having dinner with that man you met in the lift." Xen shook her head as we sat in our respective flats, confirming our plans for the evening via communicator.

"His name is Grant, Xen," I reminded her gently. "And he is a friend."

"He isn't my friend. He's some stranger you talk about all the time all of a sudden. I've done some checking. Did you know there have been a few cases where strangers who shared a single traumatic experience together developed symptoms approximating that of an emotional bond? After the connection was recognized for what it was—an artificial construct induced by unusual stress—the symptoms dissipated soon thereafter."

I laughed. "How many times do I have to tell you? My friendship with Grant is not the result of some trauma. He's a very interesting person. I enjoy his company, and I think you will, too. You like me, don't you?"

"Yes, but we worked together for over a year before having dinner for the first time. You've known this man for less than two months. Can you blame me for finding it all a bit out of the ordinary?"

"Of course not," I conceded. "But you've said it yourself, on more than one occasion—I'm not exactly the most typical of friends either. Promise me you'll give him a chance."

"Astrid says you work at the Museum of History," Errol said, head cocked and chin lifted as he peered at Grant from across the table while we waited for our meals to arrive.

"Yes, in the archeology department."

Xen shifted in her chair, increasing her distance from him. "Have you been ... in the ruins?"

He shook his head. "No. I work in the archives. My supervisor and others in my department go on the actual digs. I organize the collection and maintain records."

"Don't they worry about coming into contact with," her voice lowered to a barely audible whisper, "Outliers?"

Errol rolled his eyes. "Jebus ryste, Xen. You're far too old to believe in monsters."

I nodded. "Tales of half-human mutants living in the forests beyond the ruins have been told to children for ages, yet not once has a single claim of their existence been substantiated."

"That's right," Errol agreed. "Everyone knows they're just stories to keep children from straying too far from home."

"If it makes you feel any better," Grant put in, looking at Xen, "in all of the times since I've worked for the museum, not once did any of my colleagues ever mention coming into contact with anything other than the products of an ancient civilization."

Lifting her chin, my female friend crossed her arms and looked down her nose. "I still can't see how those people can stand it."

"I'm sorry?" Grant asked.

"Even if there's nothing ... living ... out there—and I'm still not convinced there isn't—how can your colleagues stand being out in all that ... filth?"

"They wear protective gear," Grant explained. "And there are portable decontamination units they bring along with them."

"I don't think those portable units could make me clean enough to feel safe away from civilization."

"Most people feel the same way. I think it takes a certain kind of person, someone whose interest in the subject matter is so great they can immerse themselves into their work, even if it means engaging in activities they might otherwise find highly disconcerting. Kind of like doctors."

My friends shuddered.

"Frankly, I don't see the point of it at all." Errol shrugged his shoulders. "Who cares how ancient humans lived? They've nothing to teach us except how not to live. We survive as a species in spite of them, not because of them."

I could see Grant struggling with how to respond without offending my friends. "I don't agree," he replied at last. "An ancient human philosopher named George Santayana once said, 'Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.' Even if we have evolved since the Great Decimation, I believe we must study the past, if only to ensure we continue to have a future."

"I think they liked you," I told Grant as we walked side by side, taking the long route home from the eatery later that evening.

"You think so?" he asked with an incredulous laugh.

"You're the one who insists Oliver is the picture of grace," I teased. "My friends are like those recordings of baby animals at the Natural History Museum in comparison to him."

"True," he conceded, chuckling. "I guess I just felt like I was being evaluated, like they were trying to figure out why on earth you would ever be friends with someone like me."

"That's exactly what they were doing," I confirmed.

"And you think I passed the test?"

"I wouldn't go that far, but you did make it past the first round. Didn't you notice the change in Errol's expression when you told him what that ancient philosopher said about remembering the past? You made him think. And Xen, the way she stopped leaning away from you after a while? I think she found you fascinating. She's not the only one who feels that way."

We stopped walking and stood looking at each other for a long moment. The night air felt cool against my exposed face, in sharp contrast to the tingling warmth of my suit-covered body. More than anything, I wanted to feel the heat of his skin pressed against mine. At that moment even a single touch would have been enough.

"I'm having a dinner tonight at my home and I want you to come," Oliver informed me one morning three weeks later.

My mouth dropped. "Why I ... That is very generous ... thank you so much for inviting me, sir, but I already have pl—"

"I know I made it sound like a request," he interrupted, "but it isn't. This is work, not a social function, and I need my assistant present."

"Y-yes, sir. May I ask what the purpose of the function is?"

"No, you may not."

I returned to my desk. After leaving a message for Errol about the change in plans, I resumed working on the data file my supervisor assigned me the previous day. A few minutes later the old man appeared, standing in the doorway to his office.

"It is a meeting of the Historical Society, which includes scholars of recent and ancient history," he confirmed, his voice gruff. "Representatives from each of the museums will be amongst those in attendance."

His lips twitched, and for a split second I was certain he noticed my excitement at the possibility that Grant might be one of the attendees. "I'll need your help making everything ready," he went on, handing me a pad. "Please arrive promptly at six-fifteen; the address is on the pad."

Heels clicking, I hurried down the street as fast as I dared on my way to Oliver's home, trying not to break a sweat so soon after decontaminating.

He had kept me so busy making arrangements I barely got home in time to clean my body and change into a formal outfit. I didn't even have time to contact Grant to see if he would be attending the dinner, though I still held out hope of seeing him there. He and Oliver were friends, but I didn't know how much my supervisor knew about my relationship with him. In those few opportunities when Grant and I could be alone and speak freely, my superior was not exactly at the top of the discussion list.