'You've reached Juliette. I'm not answering my phone because I dislike most people. If you're not one of them, congratulations. I may just call you back.'
A little area of my mind is starting to catastrophise that I might now fall into that first camp. Which, of course, is ridiculous. Juliette may be many things, and she may be many things I don't yet know about, but deceptive she is not. That girl calls a spade a spade (or a fucking spade, depending on how irritated she is) so when she tells me she likes me and that there's no-one else she wants to date, there's no second guessing. If she wanted to ditch me, I'd know about it. Don't get me wrong - Juliette is one of the gentlest, most beautiful people I know. If you're one of her people, her well of empathy is without end. She has a limited sufferance for idiots, is all.
I'm heading down the Broadway – the fastest route I can think of that won't yet be jam-packed with terrified citizens inevitably ignoring the State's advice to not panic. I thank God I have the car which at least gives me a chance of finding Juliette so that we can get away from the cities. She's in Lincoln – about forty-three kilometres away from my comparably sleepy suburb – a city so cool it's not even cool yet.
This is the thing, you see.
Every
little
thing
about that girl is just spot on.
You know when you play a video game and you think, jeez, the rendering on this thing! The detail! Immaculate.
That's how it is with Juliette. I don't mean to sound like a creepy, entitled dickhead who thinks someone's designed a woman, just for him. This isn't Weird Science. But it's like, the closer I get to her; the more I look... The more perfect she is. How she wears a silver arrow on one ear and a copper snowflake on the other. How she builds the perfect triple slice club sandwich: A sandwich so good, it shouldn't be shared (but she'll share it anyway). How she has zero time for narcissists and bullshit artists which she bares all over her face like a big, lit up sign. How she says my name. Tin-derrr.
God, I miss the way she says my name. That she knows my name. That words and sound and intent leave her mouth and calls out just to me. Me.
Ok. I'm well aware that I do sound creepy now but I'm just trying to convey... How right for me she seems to be. Is.
And I can't find her.
YOU ARE READING
Neverending
Science FictionThe world's about to end and Tinder has only one thing on his mind: Where is Juliette? Racing against time, rapturous weather and the unbelievable pre-apocalyptic traffic, Tinder is determined to beat it all to find his person. His one. Because...
