Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

"I'm terrified of going home thinking something might happen to Aly if I'm there." Rubbing his brow, he swore. "Dammit Zella, why the hell did you tell me this?"

"It's my job. I see, I tell, no?" She shrugged, ashes scattering over the front of her dingy gray dress. "What can I do, eh?"

"Ever hear of a little thing called 'if you can't say something nice, don't say it at all'?" His blue eyes glared into hers-- one bright green, one jaundiced blue.

Taking an angry drag on his cigarette, Petrovich held the smoke in, counted, and released the rage with the breath. "If it wasn't for my father, I wouldn't be here. You know that. But sometimes I wonder if it wasn't all speculation. He was an ice miner for Christ's sake. Shit like radiation and suffocating happen out there." Raising a hand, Petrovich circled it, indicating the space beyond the dome. "Pops knew the risks. So did Ma when she immigrated with him."

"You think I lie? You think I make things up?" Zella spit on the floor and Petrovich nearly fell off his chair in shock and disgust. "I do no such thing!"

Holding up his hands, one with the cigarette, one without, he apologized. "All right, I'm sorry. Just what I need, you giving me the evil eye or something just because I've offended you," Petrovich mumbled under his breath.

"Bah!" Zella shrugged and she gave him a small smile. "You're a good egg, yes? You know, so there is no use in cursing you. You'll suffer, but without much amusement to me, no?"

"I just wish you could give me more information, Zella." Snubbing out the cigarette in the ashtray on the table, Petrovich stood.

"If wishes were--"

"Horses, beggars would ride, yadda yadda yadda." Digging into his jacket, he pulled out a cigar. "I'm running low on my ration of cigarettes, but how about this instead? The L-T just had a kid and passed these around. I'm not too fond of cigars."

Nodding enthusiastically, Zella took the cigar. "My choice was fish." Her smile widened and she sniffed the wrapper in delight. "I'm not too fond of horses."

Walking around the gob of phloem on the worn carpet, Petrovich left.

***

Friday he spent at home, unable to enjoy his first day off in two weeks. Zella's prophesy plagued him terribly and at one point, he grabbed a pad of paper and scribbled the names that came to him. Aly's was near the top and even Zella made the list. He looked through the sheets, calculating the probability of personally killing any of them and the thought was less depressing than it should have been. Panicking at the sick amusement he was getting from the exercise, he torched the pages in a metal dustbin, watching the flames consume the names he had written.

Petrovich took his wife to dinner that night in the plaza under the dome and ordered something that didn't require sharp utensils to eat. As he half listened when she complained about her boss and her pitiful wages, his other half imagined ways of death ranging from the peaceful to the hideously grotesque. Silently he decided that if he had to go, he'd prefer a plasma pulse to the temple. It would vaporize his brain and cauterize any wound to prevent a real mess. Freezing to death would work, but the cold shoulder he got from his wife was chilly enough.

"You haven't been listening to a word I've said this entire evening, Nick." The sound of his name snapped him out of his fantasy. Glancing up, he grinned sheepishly, not liking the way Aly's lips set in a thin hard line. Her eyebrow jagged upwards once, demanding an explanation.

"You're right." The sheepish grin expanded. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and shrugged. "Sorry."

"Why do I bother?" She asked herself, raising a glass of water to her lips.