Page 34 of Space Balls: Houston, We Have Liftoff
I hear her chuckle and more drawers opening and closing. What the hell is she doing in there?
After a minute of thought, I come up with a solution. “How about we tell people we’re dating?”
“Dating?” she calls out, and her voice has an odd edge to it.
“Not for real,” I assure her, not wanting her to think I’m asking for more than she wants. “But people date all the time, you know. Doesn’t mean they get married. So when it’s time for me to fly up, we’ll just say it didn’t work out.”
A drawer slams hard. “Huh.”
“And by the time I get back”—I lean back, hands behind my head, feeling pretty smart—"you and I will be old news.”
The only sound I hear is of fabric rustling.
“Rose?” I slide my hands out from behind me, worried, wondering if I’m not as clever as I thought I was.
“I’m still here.” She emerges from the closet.
My jaw drops.
Rose is decked out in a leopard print leotard, gold belt, black fishnet stockings over sheer neon pink tights, and black patent leather platforms. Her hair is in a messy top-knot, complete with a braided neon pink sweatband.
She’s everyWeird Sciencefantasy come to life. And I’ve had quite a few in my time. Hello, eighties teenager.
She runs her hands down the slick sides of her leotard. “You better leave before I set off the glitter bomb.”
“Glitter bomb?” I blink, breaking the stare.
“Yep. Glitter bomb.” She spins on her heels and walks out.
I grab my pants off the floor and shrug into them, nearly falling over when I see how high the leotard is cut in the back.
“So, uh, what did you think of my idea?” I run my hands through my hair as I follow her down the hall. The glare off the white marble floor makes it look like she’s walking on a cloud of pink.
“The fake dating one?” she asks, still walking ahead of me, still not sounding one hundred percent like Rose.
“Yeah.” Now that we aren’t ripping each other’s clothes off, I get a better look around the place. White walls, neutral furniture.
“Sounds good.” She pauses in front of a closed door.
The only things on her shelves in the main living room are gaming stations. Every gaming station ever made. And rows of games.
Besides those things, the room is devoid of life. No personal pictures or touches. “How long have you lived here?”
“About four years.”
I’m about to question the flat tone to her voice when she opens the door.
I’m blinded.
Glitter walls, glitter ceiling, glitter floor. It looks like it might once have been an office, with wall-to-ceiling built-ins along the back wall—which are also covered in glitter. I can’t tell if it’s paint or dust.
Holding my hand up as if to ward off the light, I back up a step. “Whatisthat room?”
“My glitter room.” She looks at me like I’m slow.
“Ah, I see.” I don’t see. Probably because my retinas are scalded by the light reflecting off the billions of mica particles. It’s like I went on a space walk without my sun shield. On one hand, who has a glitter bomb room? On the other, it’s the only room I’ve seen that seems remotely Rose-like.
She steps inside and wiggles her fingers at me. “Booty call me later.” And with that, she closes the door.
