Into Valhalla

Truth and Histories

The Bronx

2041 AD

Harlow had once thought, perhaps rather foolishly, that they would eventually stop following her. She was unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Worse than that really. It made sense to watch her for a time, to wait for any minor slip up that would warrant a sentence, but certainly not forever. Two years after he permanent exile though, Harlow realized the bitter truth of her situation. She realized it as she saw the man standing across the street from her apartment, no longer caring to hide himself.

We don't have to wait forever, you idiot, his gaze seemed to say. Just until you give up.

The thought had crossed her mind a time or two. Not because of any stolen dreams or anything. That was ridiculous. People who still had dreams were children or demented and Harlow had not allowed herself that, not even for a moment. She had always known what the result of her thesis would be. She knew exactly where it would put her: a basement apartment in the poorest neighborhood of the poorest borough, working three jobs, a permanent black mark on all future applications. She hadn't done it to make a point. Revolution had never really been in her spirit.

She'd done it to get it over with.

Now there was this other matter to be over with. This rest of her life business. Harlow was 24 years old and already quite tired; she could see the point of surrender. It wasn't going to happen yet. She wasn't going to give that smug son of a bitch across the street the satisfaction, but it was on her mind. Always. She mulled it over that night over canned soup and went to bed blissfully carefree. Wouldn't that be the easiest thing in the world, to just not anymore? The thought left her happier than she'd been in months.

Morning shift at the coffee house quickly saw to that, of course. The service smile no longer hurt her cheeks after six hours, as she'd thoroughly conditioned her face muscles to hold it. That being said, the veneer was shallow and she never doubted all those shitty tippers in nice suits knew it. They returned her fakeness with their own until nothing in the world seemed quite real or right.

This was made worse in short order by the entrance of a woman who struck Harlow as immediately familiar. Short-cropped hair and square in build. No makeup, glasses, ruddy cheeks, heavy overcoat in an Indian summer. Probably early-forties but seemed determined to make herself look older.

Harlow froze.

"I'll have one of those pumpkin things," the woman said, in a European accent vague enough that it would have been otherwise implacable if Harlow hadn't already known who was speaking.

"Um . . . what size?"

"Whatever the big one is, I suppose."

No more words passed between them as Harlow dutifully prepared a gigantic—but nevertheless ludicrously expensive—latte. She passed it off silently and watched as the woman took it to the corner table, where she sipped it methodically and did absolutely nothing else. She never did look back at Harlow, but it was clear she would not be moving any time soon.

The shift unfolded as it usually did, only now under a thick miasma of anxiety that couldn't quite be named. Come break time, Harlow took her fifteen minutes to approach the corner table. She did not sit down.

"We . . . uh . . . have a policy about staying for more than two hours."

"Which is?" the woman asked.

"Don't do it?"

The woman smiled. "Shall I go for a walk around the block before ordering another one of these delicious spice drinks? Does my time reset then?"