Turner 454

          David was far more effective at plunging through the throbbing mass of bodies than Sarah was. Even lost in the music, people seemed to sense him coming, and let the two of them pass without missing a beat. Those that didn't step aside, David moved, firmly yet graciously. "Pardon," is all he'd say as they brushed past.

          The night air had gotten even stickier since Sarah had gone in, and stepping out of the crowd and through the door of the 'Shroom offered only a little relief.

          The ground was no longer shaking, at least, and the comparative silence of the sidewalk seemed to rush deep into Sarah's ears. Every noise was muted, as though they were wrapped in a thick blanket, or sunk in the ocean. In fact, the quiet almost hurt - Sarah tugged at her earlobes to squelch the ringing.

          "When I first started coming here, they played pretty good music," Sarah yelled, forgetting for a moment where she was. She shrugged as her voice echoed off the cold glass of a darkened bank across the street.

          "When I first started coming here, they served the best pizza calzone subs," David hollered, then laughed. "I would make such a mess eating them, I'd bring an extra shirt."

          "I only knew this place after it was turned into a dance club," she said, making a sad face. "I think I would've liked it as a restaurant better."

          "The chef's still in town - she's got a small place at the Underground," he said, taking off his jacket and folding it over his left arm. "But yeah, those were the good old days."

          "And when was that?"

          "Not too long ago," he said, turning to face her. The blue light radiating from the 'Shroom washed over him, his red hair turning an otherworldly deep maroon.

          "Yeah?" she asked, stepping right up to him, toe to toe, looking up at his grinning face. "How old are you?"

          "Hmm." He lifted his hand, and traced the tip of his finger lightly down her nose. "Not old enough to remember The Strike, but old enough to remember seeing the first movies about it, when I was a kid."

          Sarah blinked. She and math didn't mix well, especially after a margarita. "So that's, what, five? Ten years older than me?"

          "Depends," he said. "How old are you?"

          She stepped back and threw her arms in the air. "Twenty-sixty-eight, see, I'm a boom baby, baby," she said, "Just like the song."

          He shook his head. "Kids these days."

          "Hey!" She punched him, dead in the center of his chest. It made a most sexy deep thump. "Besides, I'm not really... my mom was a month pregnant at the time."

          "That makes you even younger," he sighed.

          "But old enough," she said. She wasn't quite sure what she meant, but gave him a look that implied she was being clever.

          He brushed a sweaty clump of hair off her forehead, and just looked at her for a long minute. Then he grinned. "So, should I ask you what you do, or what you plan to do when you grow up?"

          "I 'grow up' on Friday," she teased. "Turner Media Institute, Class of '91."

          "So you're going to make movies?"

          "No, nothing that cool," she said, infusing the word 'cool' with as much disgust as she could muster. "I'm in the journalism track - text, even, one of the last grads ever."

          "Oh, a journalist," he said, mimicking her disgust. "No more text, though? No one writes anymore?"

          "They will, but they're moving it into the English core," she sighed. "It's all about FPR and holojournalism now. I might be a kid, David, but like art, I guess I've got old fashioned tastes."

          "Good," he said, bending down to plant the softest, warmest kiss yet. "I'm feeling pretty old."

          She tiptoed to kiss him again.

          "Let's see that Gaugin," she whispered, sneakily.

          He turned and stepped to the curb, looked down the busy street, and raised his hand.

          "Say, David," she called. "I don't know how long it's been since you've caught a cab, being so old and all, but these days they don't pick you up unless you stand..."

          And then she noticed it. A long, black car, prowling silently toward them, its lights dimmed and its windows blacked out. A stylized "K" was etched into an octagonal badge at the tip of the nose, the sole patch of silver on the entire shell. It rolled to a perfect stop right in front of them, and the rear door slid open with a most expensive-sounding whoosh.

          "David?"

          "Shall we?" he asked, extending his arm to help her in.

          Sarah just stood there.

          "Or would you prefer a cab?"

          "This is your car?" she squeaked.

          "No, actually, it's a company car," he said, reassuringly.

          "Your company has a fleet of Kamens?"

          He laughed. "Well, they're pretty reliable, but mostly we - my company - invested a while back when they were still ironing the kinks out of the power cells."

          Sarah finally collected herself, paused, and cocked her head thoughtfully. "Not bad," she said, and climbed in as gracefully as she could in her crouch-incompatible outfit.

          "Thanks," he said, sliding in.

          And without a sound, they were off.