From: tsa@cellar.org (The Silent Assassin)
Subject: Short story
Date: Sun, 10 Apr 94 16:23:34 EDT

I wrote this for AP English class, figured some people out there might like
it.  Its not that cyberpunk, since I had to keep it fairly understandable to
those not in the genre.  There are some interesting stylistic twists, the
two main characters are always referred to by pronouns, never names, and
the basic format is paragraph, he talks, paragraph, she talks, repeat.  Tell
me what you think.

Patri Friedman
AP English
3/28/94

Mirrorshades


	Her black leather boots hit the concrete in front of his face
with a solid thunk that reverberated through his intoxicated brain like an
imprudent eruciation through a silent church.  The pale light of the sun
pierced his mental haze, driving daggers of pain into his numbed skull.  He
started to pull the shattered shards of his mind together into some sort of
coherent order.  He hated waking up.

	"Seems like you had a bad night"

	He lifted his head towards the source of the words, squinting
against the harsh sunlight.  She was tall, lithe, and armed, not surprising
for a female in this sort of neighborhood.  The yellow rays of the sun
outlined her mahogany hair, glinting off the highlights and causing an
almost halo-like effect.  Her leather jacket was as black as steaming Java
coffee and his specular reflection in her mirrorshades made him realize
how truly disheveled he must appear.
	
	"Actually it was a lot of fun.  I think.  It must have been, I
don't remember any of it."

	He struggled to his feet, abused muscles groaning like an
English student assigned a theme on literature.  His head throbbed with
the primal beat of blood pulsing like liquid fire through his veins.  A
tangled network of pain reached out from his cortex, encircling
miscellaneous bodily parts and assimilating them.  As his mental functions
began to return, he identified the particular sources of pain.  Most were
caused by sleeping on concrete, although a few stemmed from the barely-
remembered events of the previous night.

	"Sure looks like you had a wild time.  Need a lift?"

	One of her long fingers extended towards the motorcycle
leaning on the alley wall, an expensive vehicle with the harnessed energy
of a sleek ebony jaguar crouched to strike.  She turned and walked
towards it, without a glance back to see if he followed.  Although his
perambulation started as a shamble, by the time he reached the bike it
was almost back to the easy confident step he normally affected.  The
guttural roar of the engine echoed from the alley walls, creating a
discordant melody that aptly reflected his mental condition.  He wished he
could wake up more quickly.

	"Sure.  Can I treat you to breakfast?"

	She turned and looked at him, studying his face for a second,
and then smiled.  He wondered at what was happening behind the silver
screen of her shades.  They hid her eyes as they hid her personality, a
featureless mask behind which to hide while studying the world around
her.  They reflected everyone, not as they wanted to be, or feared they
were, but as a direct reflection of themselves, distorted only by the smooth

mathematical curve of its lenses.

	"Hold on tightly.  Is Tino's alright?  Its the only place I know
around here."

	He encircled her with his arms in answer, clasping his hands
together across her stomach.  As she shifted out of neutral and hit the gas,

he could feel the smooth tremble of the engine with his legs.  The fresh
cold air streaming past his face restored most of his mental faculties
quickly, and he began to wonder about the woman who was suddenly all-
to-close to him.  Her stomach felt taut and muscular beneath his hands,
and she directed the Kawasaki with practiced ease.  After a brief eternity
of contemplation, the rumbling of the engine slowed, and they arrived at
the diner.

	"Park it round back where it's less likely to be seen.  A nice
toy like that'll end up in a chop shop quicker n you can say 20%
commission per vehicle.  Kids around here learn math quick, and relieving
strangers of their material possessions sure pays better n flippin' food.
Tino won't mind, he knows me."

	She followed his directions silently, stopping the bike behind
the restaurant where it could not easily be seen from the street.  She
dismounted, lifting a long denim clad leg over the bike, and then helped
him off.  They walked around to the front, and opened the glass doors of
the building.  The melange of sounds from inside washed over the pair and
spilled out onto the street.  Pool cues clicked on balls, drinks sloshed
down
thirsty throats, and the low buzz of conversation permeated the large
room.

	"I'm going to stop in the bathroom.  You might want to as
well, clean yourself up a little."

	He nodded and turned towards one of the diner's lavatories.
As he entered and looked in the mirror, he studied himself.  Lines of
weariness creased his face, and his hair was a stygian horror.  He retrieved

a battered comb from his pocket, and fought a protracted battle with his
hair, eventually fighting it to a draw.  As he exited the bathroom, he
quickly spotted her at the bar, nursing a coffee.  He took the stool next to

her, and asked the bartender for a cup of something hot and caffeinated.

	Years later, late at night, nursing an identical cup of coffee, he
remembered her.  What if he hadn't just said goodbye after that cup, he
mused.  What if he had had the guts to say something, anything, that
would have given him a chance to see her again.  He had never even
discovered her name.  The feel of her smooth supple stomach beneath his
hands, the smell of her long hair as it whipped back into his face from the
wind, her pure aggressive femaleness as he gripped her tightly on the bike
--- fragmented snatches of memories drifted towards him through the
mists of the years.  The only comfort he could gather from the emotional
images was that he had avoided rejection.  But without the chance to lose,
he had nothing to gain, and so he lost her, as he had lost all the others,
with a whimper, not a bang. He had nothing to show for his luck in meeting
her but a few faded empty images of someone who was cold and bold; who
could have been his had he been able to look past the silver reflection of
his own weakness and see the eyes which hid behind the mirrorshades.
-------------------------------


                               Patri Friedman
      Drink Canada Dry!  You might not succeed, but it *is* fun trying.
                 Support your local police force -- steal!!
   I aim for the stars, but sometimes I hit London. --- Wernher Von Braun