Page 73 of Secretly Abducted
Another farmer waves from the distance, and we wave back—the extent of our social interaction most days, which suits us both perfectly.
"We should keep working."
"We should." But he doesn't move, and neither do I.
We float there together, legs occasionally bumping, until a wave larger than the rest breaks over us and Alex comes up sputtering.
"Ocean's telling us to work," he gasps, wiping water from his eyes.
By midday, my shoulders ache and Alex's hands are cramping from gripping tools, but he's humming something from Earth while he works.
We take a break on one of the floating platforms, sharing water from the bottle we keep there. Alex drinks first, water running down his chin, dripping onto his chest. He passes it to me, then lies back on the sun-warmed platform with a contented sigh.
"Perfect," he says.
"Your shoulder is bleeding."
He looks at the scrape from earlier. "Battle scar. Makes me look tough."
"You look like you lost a fight with a platform."
"The platform started it." He grins up at me. "How much more?"
"Three sections."
"Excellent. We'll be done before the afternoon current gets bad." He sits up, stretches. "I love this."
"Being injured?"
"Being here. Doing this. With you." He stands, pulls me up with him. "Come on, let's finish so we can go home and do absolutely nothing except each other."
The afternoon work is harder—we're tired, the sun is brutal, and the current picks up. But Alex laughs when a wave catches him off guard, sending him spinning.
By the time we head home, we can barely swim straight. Alex is doing a kind of exhausted dogpaddle that would be embarrassing if anyone was watching. I'm not much better.
The shower at the platform is heaven. Alex stands under it with his eyes closed, letting it rinse the minerals away. Water runs down his body in rivulets, and despite my exhaustion, I want him.
"Tonight," he says without opening his eyes. "Whatever you're thinking, tonight. I'm too dead now."
At home, I start dinner while Alex lies on the floor, but he's tapping his feet against the wall, restless despite his exhaustion.
"What are you making?" he asks.
"Steamed wraps with protein paste."
He makes a face I can see even from the kitchen. "Again?"
"It's nutritious."
"It's boring." He rolls to his feet, joins me at the counter. "Let me make something too. Fish and chips."
"Fish and what?"
"Fried potato-things. Earth comfort food." He's already at the synthesizer, typing in what he needs. "You can have your wraps, I'll have my heart attack food, we'll share both."
We end up eating on the floor as always, the mix of foods strange but somehow perfect—his greasy fish and chips next to my carefully wrapped rolls. He feeds me a chip, laughs when I grimace at the oil.
"Too much?"
