Careless People

by Emily Zasada

The Room

We were in a huge shining room with the most beautiful furniture I’d ever seen and long, bright wide windows, the thick kind that appeared to turn blue when you viewed them from an angle; I’d noticed them on shows I’d watched on my holobit, but this was the first time I’d ever seen them in real life. A giant Christmas tree in the corner, perfectly white, glittering aggressively. And Thomas’ family—so many of them!—sitting around in their beautiful expensive clothes and drinking out of beautiful expensive glasses and everyone smiling at me at once; my face already hurt from smiling back. Nothing about how the room was laid out made sense; coffee tables, sofas, love seats, and overstuffed chairs were scattered everywhere with no apparent logic to their positioning. A trio of androgynous-looking cousins were squabbling quietly in a corner while playing games on their holobits; the air in front and around them was cluttered with colorful holographic cubes. The surfaces of things were cluttered, too, with scarves and sweaters over the back of sofas and tables cluttered with chargers and empty glasses and dishes. Crumbs everywhere, as if this had been going on for a long time, as if these people had been sitting around in their beautiful expensive clothes and doing nothing for days but browsing around on their holobits and nibbling on pastries and getting drunk—which, for all I knew, was actually the case. Honestly, I couldn’t rule anything out; already today, I’d seen a lot of things that I hadn’t seen or imagined in real life, including a lot of things I hadn’t believed were real, or at least not exactly, but I was trying desperately not to let anyone know that, not even Thomas. The ocean right outside the windows at eye-level with the sky up above. It was the first time in my entire life that I’d seen the ocean in person, but I was trying not to stare because Thomas didn’t know that about me or much of anything else. It was shocking—all that water. The endless blue-blackness of it. How violent it was with the way the waves kept crashing against the walls, and how it was clear that it could swallow all of us in an instant, and didn’t anyone else care about that? And the fact that even though it was a massive room with huge windows, it was all I could see anywhere, except—when I stood up and craned my head to see the surface—a sandbar several hundred yards away, a pale strip of sand surrounded by water. Of course, I knew the ocean was real, but not that it was right here in places where people lived, that houses were built below sea level like they’d been saying on the other news channels, the ones my parents didn’t watch. To get here, we’d parked underground and walked through an airlock; I don’t think I’d actually believed that people lived in houses with airlocks until I heard the click of one closing behind me. But now here I was, and there was the ocean, a matter of a few feet away, and I was being forced to admit that at least some of the things I’d secretly believed were lies were actually true—which was terrifying, to say the least. Every time a wave hit one of the windows, I tried not to scream.

There was a child in the room, but only one; a small blonde girl walking around and asking everyone to look at her holobit, which, of course, wasn’t a holobit at all because children weren’t allowed to own them anymore but rather some sort of rudimentary sculpture of a head made out of paper maché or something and covered in glitter, so it would look a little like a hologram, I guess, if you squinted. This particular head had yellow glitter where the hair was and pink glitter in the general location where the lips were supposed to be, and the little girl was running around the room and showing it to everyone; when she handed it to me, I held it and exclaimed approvingly; when I gave it back, I saw glitter was all over my fingers. I attempted to compliment it, but she stared at me as if I’d said something terrible and ran away.

Thomas touched my arm. “Samantha,” he said. His eyes were puzzled—and possibly a little cool. He took the wine glass out of my hand and set it on the coffee table. I found this insulting. Immediately, I picked it up again. “Samantha,” Thomas repeated. “My mother asked you a question.” Thomas’ mother was sitting in front of us, a little frown line over one eye. Had anyone actually told me her name? Maybe people this wealthy didn’t need names. She was blonde, coated in silver jewelry, and wore nothing but blue. Even her shoes were blue. “I’m sorry,” I said. Thomas’ mother waved a hand. “It was about the wild parakeets. I was just wondering if you’ve seen them in Iowa.” “No,” I said, shaking my head, “not me personally, but my sister’s roommate has.” All at once, I was aware that everyone in the room was looking at me; even the trio of androgynous cousins were looking at me. I couldn’t imagine why they were so fascinated. Surely, at this point, the Midwest parakeets were old news. “Yes,” I began, “she said they’re everywhere in—”

The Newcomer

There was a loud noise, followed by a gust of wind. Wind off the sea; it was alien to me, salty and cool. I startled, my heart thudding. For a moment, I thought a wall somewhere in the house had given way. At any minute, the blue-black sea would rush in and drown us all. All the heads in the room swiveled toward the sound. Maybe drowning wasn’t imminent, but something was. I could feel it. “Hey, everyone,” a man’s voice called. “I’m here. Sorry I’m late.” Then Thomas’ mother shook her head. “That boy,” she said to no one in particular. “Has he ever been on time?” “Goddamnit,” Thomas said next to me, under his breath and to no one in particular. “Fucking Seth.”

A man was standing in the doorway. My age, or thereabouts. Light-colored eyes, black hair in tight close-cropped curls. He didn’t look like anyone else there. Also, he was carrying a guitar. The first person he looked at in the room was me. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Seth.”

My first thought was he sees me. Immediately, I realized how silly that sounded, possibly the silliest thought I’d ever had in my life. I was honestly embarrassed by it, even if it were safely, secretly enclosed in my head. Other than the fact that Thomas didn’t seem to like him, I didn’t know anything about him or what he saw, if anything. And really, whether or not he saw anything when he looked at me was separate from the strange realization that I wanted him to see me. This was jarring, certainly. What, exactly, did I want him to see in me? I was a people-pleaser, the kind of person who went out of my way to avoid any sort of friction; I was from the Midwest. I’d traveled to the East Coast for the first time to visit my new boyfriend and meet his family. Still, I felt myself smiling—genuinely smiling, for the first time since I’d gotten off the plane. “Hi,” I said. “I’m Samantha.”

Out of The Water

The afternoon wore on; the light on the ocean deepened. Waves continued to hurtle against the walls. A dozen or so people in black and white uniforms arrived and placed appetizers on side tables. Someone turned on Christmas music, a few people began to sing drunkenly along. The lights dimmed. Time was blurring strangely, occasionally seeming to jump ahead while paradoxically staying still. “Samantha,” Thomas’ mother said, “we haven’t had a chance to talk.” Her smile was pink and wide and feral. When she reached for her wine glass, I saw the sparkle of glitter on her fingertips. Outside the window, the last sunlight of the day was like flames on the surface of the water. The tide was going out, I supposed; there was more sky and less water, although there was still plenty of water. There was also more sandbar; it was wider now and at eye level. As I watched, a seagull landed and walked around, looking bored. “Yes,” I said stupidly, “I guess we haven’t.” She brought up the fact that Thomas and I met at a trade show a few months earlier, and wasn’t that something. A whirlwind romance, she said with a note of humor and something else that sounded like derision. “You’re still getting to know one another,” she said. “Thomas told me this was your first plane trip. That’s unusual, isn’t it? You’re—what—about twenty-five or so?” “Twenty-six,” I replied. “Yes, well.” She took a sip of her wine. “How did you like it? Was there anything you didn’t expect?” I hesitated, unsure what I should say. Because the truth was that I hadn’t expected any of it. How loud the plane was, for one—that hadn’t been what I'd imagined. Also, as we drew closer to the coast, there had been all that water; I hadn’t expected that either. And then the fact that I hadn’t expected it to scare me a little. Because while part of me had always thought my parents were probably self-deluded and more than a little naive, apparently, there was another—bigger—part of me that had folded itself into their beliefs. Seeing the tops of those ruined buildings as the plane made its final approach, the drowned skyscrapers and waves lapping over exit ramps and all the rest of it—and then being inside the underwater terminal, all of this obviously real yet clashing with my previously secret-to-me belief that my parents were right and all the lovely people they watched on their favorite news channels every night were right and the fact that so much water was in places it wasn’t that long ago couldn’t, actually, be real—was, to put it mildly, terrifying. Also, it made me feel very small. I thought of my father, sitting in his worn leather recliner, calling out to my mother and me to come and take a look at the fake underwater cities on the fake news. What will they make up next, he always liked to say. How we would all laugh. I took a sip of my wine. “The trip was fine,” I heard myself saying out loud. “Everything was very smooth—”

A movement out of the corner of my eye. In the gloom of the water, just outside the window. A whirring noise, soft and mechanical and strange, accompanied by a giant silvery thing that was moving fast, faster, long gleaming black panels appearing, moving more quickly still, right outside the windows, now rising, now at the surface of the water or almost, the last golden sunlight of the day right behind it illuminating the shape of a head inside, but dark, featureless; maybe it wasn’t a head at all, perhaps it was the illusion of one, it was speeding up now, it was coming right toward me, it was going to come straight through the window, the window was about to shatter—

I screamed; dropped my glass.

Everyone in the room turned to look at me.

“Are you all right?” A voice, low by my ear, and a warm hand on my shoulder. Seth.

As I stood there, watching, the silvery thing roared as it emerged from the water, appearing on the not-too-distant sandbar. Dark appendages that I realized were wheels that jutted out from the side and then descended, whirling as the thing—a vehicle, I saw now—came out of the water. Then one of the black panels lifted, and a person stepped out: a man with silver hair, wearing a black jacket and black pants. Behind him, a woman emerged. The man looked in our direction and waved a hand. Reached back into the vehicle and pulled out a wine glass, lifting it toward the house in a toast. The room rippled with laughter. “Victor!” Thomas’ mother said, her pink lips drawn back in a wide smile. “I wonder how long it will be until he’s tired of that thing.” “He gets easily bored, doesn’t he,” Thomas’ father agreed from across the room.

“What is it,” I whispered. “A Popov,” Seth said, his voice low next to my ear. Hybrid water vehicles. ”I take it you’ve never seen one before.” I shook my head. Everyone was watching me. Shame moved in, heating my cheeks. It seemed as if the light was fading from the sky as I watched. It was ridiculous how aware I was of his closeness. “No,” I said. “They don’t have those in Iowa.”

The Kitchen

Later, when no one was paying attention, I slipped out into the dark hallway in search of the kitchen I’d glimpsed when we first came in, which—strangely—was only a few hours earlier, although it seemed as if it had been a few days. Hardly any light was on, so it was hard to see if I was heading in the right direction, but eventually, I found the kitchen, made my way to the sink, and dumped out a nearly-empty wine glass I found there, filling it with water instead and drinking it as fast as I could before immediately refilling it and drinking another glass. I couldn’t find a light switch, and the only light anywhere came from the sullen appliances that lined the walls, but as nothing else in this house seemed to work the way I expected, that hardly seemed surprising. Then I just stood there for a moment, the glass in my hand, and took a deep breath as I looked around. It was a disaster everywhere I looked. Food scattered all over the counter, on and off plates, cutting boards everywhere, fruits and vegetables sliced and left forgotten, some obviously left out for hours, trays of half-eaten appetizers, empty bottles, baguettes of bread with pieces torn off, grapes that had rolled off the counter and gotten stepped on, a half-sliced ham, crackers scattered everywhere, crumbs, tipped over glasses, spilled wine. I couldn’t begin to imagine what it cost, all that food. These days, all my parents could afford was food that came out of cans. They didn’t want to admit it, but I was aware that these days most of their money went toward keeping the air conditioner running.

“Here you are,” a voice behind me said. Right away, I felt a little thrill because I knew who it was. Also, I realized I’d been expecting him. “I was thirsty,” I said. “Also,” I said, “I needed to get away.” Even though he was standing in the shadows, I could see him smile. “They’re awful, aren’t they,” Seth said, gesturing in the direction of the music and the laughter. “Those people.” I opened my mouth, unsure what to say, and closed it again. Put the glass I was holding down on the counter. “They’re your family,” I said. “Aren’t they?” Even as I said it, I knew it wasn’t the truth, or at least not exactly; I thought something I’d overheard about his parents were divorced, how his father and stepmother were living in one of the seven underwater colonies on the other side of the world. “Hardly,” he said, stepping closer. “I don’t have anything in common with any of them.” Tipped his head in the direction of the door. “They’re all useless. The waitstaff also. When they’re not working, they’re sitting in the airlock on their holobits, drinking and laughing because it’s soundproof there. They don’t think anyone knows.” I nodded. Somehow he was now only inches away. I wasn’t sure if I’d move closer to him or he’d moved closer to me, but one of us had moved, or maybe it was both of us. He put his hands on my bare arms. Even from where I was standing, I could feel how the waves shook the entire house. “The world is ending soon,” he said, his mouth hovering next to my ear. “The one we know, anyway. No one wants to believe it, but it’s true.” “I know,” I said, as if I always had, even though—up until that day—I hadn’t known at all. Then I kissed him, only because I wanted to and because the end of the world seemed like an excuse, and I understood I’d been waiting for one. He tasted salty like I guessed the ocean probably tasted, and when I closed my eyes, I thought of what it would be like to be just on the other side of the windows, floating away into the dark sea.

It was only when I broke away that I saw Thomas standing in the doorway, his expression angry in a way I hadn’t seen before, didn’t know he had it in him, to be honest. Then my perspective shifted, as abruptly as if I’d been looking at myself through one camera, but then all of a sudden, I was looking at myself through another. For a moment, no one moved—at least, not until I saw tiny specks of light glinting on Seth’s shoulders and hair. “Wait,” I said, in a voice loud enough that Thomas would hear. “I didn’t get it all.” Then I reached up with great care and brushed every fragment of glitter out of Seth’s hair, off his shoulders, making sure that as I did, to bring my face close enough to his that Thomas—who was standing behind Seth and couldn’t see much anyway, given that it was so dark—might change his mind about whatever he’d thought he’d seen. I spent a long time doing this, gathering glitter off this stranger, his warm breath on my cheek. As I did, for some reason, I thought of my parents in their house, the air conditioner up all the way so my mother could wear the cardigans she used to like to wear in the winter, about the news channels they loved to watch and how it occurred to me that I’d never actually pressed them on whether or not they believed anything they heard on those channels and how I was also now certain I never would. After a moment or two, Thomas crossed the kitchen and poured a glass of wine. The three of us talked for a few minutes about the weather, I think, or a show we’d all watched on our holobits or something along those lines. Within a few minutes, I started to feel as if I’d imagined the kiss, that it had never actually happened, that I really had been brushing glitter out of Seth’s hair all along. That I actually was exactly the person I thought I was, that I wanted to be, or that I wanted to be at some point in my life, although I was no longer sure when that point was. While we were talking, I found myself starting to clean; I used a damp napkin to gather up the crumbs and a dishtowel to mop up some of the spilled wine, although it seemed like no matter how much I did, everything remained in an almost laughable state of catastrophic disarray. Out in the living room, someone burst into song. A huge wave crashed against the house, shaking the floor.

Winner of Esoterica Magazine's inaugural Short Story Contest (2023), shortlisted for the Masters Review Anthology volume XII, and nominated for both the Pushcart Prize and Sundress Publications' Best of the Net, Emily Zasada's short stories have appeared in Orca, A Literary Journal, The MacGuffin, Litro, COG Magazine, Hive Avenue, Your Impossible Voice, The Forge Literary Magazine, Straylight Literary Magazine, and many others. Originally from the Baltimore area, she now lives in Northern Virginia. Find more at emilyzasada.com.