Cold Read

You were standing here at a house party when you saw the unmistakable bulk of Tempo del Sur clambering over the rooftops towards you.

The sun burns off the last of the morning fog. The day is clear. The people of Quisach district go about their lives.

"Anything interesting in the shack back there?" He smiles at you.

"You should move, CASCADE."

As you press down on the intercom button, a little light comes on.

The fire door stands between you and the roof. Unfortunately, someone removed the pelota ball that was wedging it open.

PSEUDOPOD shifts from foot to foot, glancing at the boatman.

You return to the lone payphone.

Ramses' body, breathing softly.

The stereo is right where you left it.

You pick up the payphone's handset. A dolphin emblem smiles at you, its eyes wide.

You stand before Tempo's door once more.

"Hello again."

"Back again, are we?"

"How goes it, H?"

The cat lounges.

The satchel by the door is empty, but the rain boots haven't moved.

"Long time, no speaky, nameless one."

The intercom gleams in the daylight, fully exposed.

There they all are, just as you left them.

One more phone, one more voice.

Light refracts within your cornea; you are someone else, somewhere else.

"Operant."

The vendor won't look at you. He recoils slightly as you step closer.

"Go on, Hersh. You'll give us away."

"Spare me the bleating you call an accent and listen up: metoprolol, you eunuch-diddling Azzurri. That's what I paid for -- not atenolol!"…

You return to the faded billboard.

"Back again."

"I believe... this is where I'm supposed to offer you a deal."

Someone must have dropped these. They'll hide your eyes.

Curled in on herself, staring at her hands, muttering.

An invitation to protest the demolition of the Palace of Culture.

A tower of back issues, doomed to remain unread.

Dozens of personnel files, the specifics redacted with a roller-stamp.

Dustless below the tarp, awaiting an unveiling that will never come.

Some serious protection gloves were left here.

Silence. Nobody's home.

The toilet seat is up.

A larder, full of food and well-leafed psychology textbooks.

Old pipes, groaning under pressure.

You can't tell whether she's closing her eyes or opening them.

It rains rust when the wind picks up.

The bulb burns a white dot into your vision.

The rubbish Tempo wanted to pretend didn't exist.

The amount of anti-music this player has endured would have broken a lesser stereo.

Her eyes follow you around the room, head unturned.

Ripples of electrons scan across the display.

It appears to be the news, except the anchor is wearing a brown paper bag on his head.

Staring at you blind across a gulf of alcohol poisoning.

Nothing can be seen through the opaque glass of that narrow window, but you know exactly what's on the other side: a cramped, dirty…