#anna weaver

by Anna Weaver

What’s that what’s that what 
 do they call that what is he doing where 
am I is that a hooker is that safe 
to drink how much should I tip is this the right street gate building door what did she say what did she mean am I underdressed?

Oh god, it’s so big small elegant 
filthy wet bright hazy hot!

Is this normal did I offend 
them am I in the right line what’s 
the word for please thank you where 
is the bathroom is that supposed 
to be a toilet what does that button do 
should I push it and find out?


When’s my next flight ferry subway bus ride how 
long to the airport marina underground 
taxi queue from here how much 
 is that in dollars am I supposed to barter will 
this cab driver cheat me kidnap me resent me 
say anything besides where to, miss?

What day is it again what time 
back home where everyone who loves 
me is sleeping will they like their souvenirs?

I think I could live here I can’t wait to get home 
can’t wait to come back bring my children 
sister lover someone to help carry back all these questions.

  --

Okay. Whatever. Weaver’s nineteen and she’s not a saint. But everyone can just quit it with all the jokes about her getting all heated up over tech. Especially Sidonis. If he makes one more crack about how she looks at that tactical cloak, she’s rigging his omni-tool to play elcor porn all the time. 

It is a nice tactical cloak, but there are things that get her, right in the gut. And very few of them are humans. 

She does like humans — that old vid about the puppets and the maze and all the weird singing pretty much guaranteed she’d be into tall, skinny, superior males for the rest of her life, but that was before she met Sensat. 

He served noodles at a shitty little booth just outside her apartment block. She stopped once on her way back from her job as a courier, and bought a bowl of noodles because she overheard the salarian talking about how his omni-tool kept glitching.

He had a good voice. Low, for a salarian, and he laughed. A lot.

It had been over a year since she’d gotten any, and that laugh went straight down — all the way down — in a hot red line. She offered to fix his omni-tool, free of charge. Their fingers brushed as he passed it over and Weaver blushed, straight down, all the way down.

After that, whenever the gunshots paused, she’d sneak out of her apartment, hoping that creepy batarian from down the hall wouldn’t see her, and run down to spend too many credits on chewy, tasteless noodles in mystery broth. Just because she thought the salarian was cute. 

It was all in the hands. Two fingers instead of four — that took some getting used to, but then he’d twitch and they’d crook, just right, and she’d imagine those hands doing more than serving food, she’d imagine them —

Let’s just say the noodles got dumped down the garbage chute half the time because she got distracted and let them congeal into a lump. She’d lay in bed, sweating, and tell herself she wasn’t going back. Salarians weren’t into humans. He wasn’t into her. 

She’d go back a few days later. He’d grin and say he missed her, and the cycle would start again: would his mouth be cold or hot if she kissed him? Could she span his waist with her hands? Was there a way — maybe, just maybe —