Chapter 3

I jerk awake at the sound of my doorbell. Nobody visits me, and it takes me a moment to push the noise into my version of reality. I get to my feet and rub my back, sore from sleeping curled up in a ball around my government-approved hypoallergenic pillow.

After dressing in a worn t-shirt and shorts, I trudge to the door, wishing there was a peephole so I could decide whether to answer it. Peepholes are a useless bit of hardware when there isn’t any crime to speak of.

Why bother to steal when all your needs are met? Violent impulses are soothed by constant subliminal messaging and a cocktail of antidepressants and so-called mood enhancers. I tried to learn Chinese a few years back and gave it up when I found myself parroting thinly veiled catchphrases and slogans.

I open the door, revealing a smiling man dressed in an impeccable gray suit. I don’t remember the last time I saw a man dressed so formally. It must have been 2025 or so, back when I used to be a fresh-faced coed ready to take on the world. In those halcyon days, I’d thought men in suits were the capitalist devil.

He’s carrying a white paper bag that smells of things I’ve nearly forgotten. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear it was a to go bag from Café du Monde.

He’s darkly handsome, with chiseled bones sharp enough to cut. Lines frame deeply set dark eyes, and his nose is aquiline, long and narrow. Dark strands of hair threaded with a few hints of silver are cut precisely to fall just so above his collar. His face is slightly vulpine, the grin predatory as he looks me up and down.

And he smells like a summer storm; that heady combination of seawater and freshness mixed with something spicy that makes me want to lean closer to better catch his warm scent.

I feel underdressed. Or maybe undressed. I feel like he can see through me, not just my clothes, but into my being to the places no one should see. “Can I help you?” I ask, thankful my voice doesn’t waver.

“Good morning, Natalie,” he says, holding out a perfect hand. His nails are trimmed, the cuticles neat. His fingers are long, warm as he clasps my hand. “I’m Lucian Martinus.”

“Good morning, L. Martinus,” I say returning the greeting in a more socially acceptable form. We are all equal under the government’s benevolent eye. Titles and first names are impolite gender conventions.

His voice is vaguely familiar, but my head is muzzy; too filled with dreams of last night to think properly. I can’t place where I’ve heard it.

He brings my hand to his lips and brushes a kiss on my palm. I try to hide a shiver at the unmistakable punch of lust it gives me. The gesture sparks a memory and I look up into dark eyes I remember very clearly.

“You,” I whisper, taking a step back.

“Call me Lucian, please,” he murmurs. “Should you not have that intimacy with the father of your children?”

“I don’t know you,” I say, pulling my hand free to take a step backward. He already has his feet planted in the doorway, so I can’t shut the door without hitting him. “Did you submit an application for procreation in my name?”

He glances down at the bags of food on my floor and scowls. “Leave it to the minions in Ration Distribution to make a mess of things,” he says. He shifts his feet, but doesn’t move closer. “May I come in?”

I shrug and wave him toward the couch. He’s tall enough that he dwarfs my tiny apartment. The couch looks like a child’s toy as he lowers his bulky frame to sit. I take the other end, as far from him as I can manage. “Why did you forge my name on the application?” I ask again. “There must have been someone younger that would have suited you.”

Setting the white bag down on the floor between his feet, he opens it and pulls out a large paper cup. Handing it to me, he says, “This used to be your morning order, if I recall.”

I take the cup and open the lid. The aroma of fresh coffee hits me in the face and I gasp. “Where did you get this?” I ask.

“Naughty of me, isn’t it?” He gives me a smile that turns his face boyish and pleased. “Totally illegal, of course. You ought to drink it before someone catches you.”

I lift the cup to my lips with shaking hands. It’s almost too hot to drink, but I take a sip. It’s delicious. No sugar, just the right amount of cream, exactly the way I like it.

Still smiling, he leans back against the couch cushions and watches me drink. “Do you like it?” he asks.