FLASHBACK: First Contact V3 approaches a doorway at his usual, brisk, waste-no-time pace, just ahead of a women approaching from the other direction. He catches himself needlessly rushing, so he opens the door and waits. She thanks him, with a smile. Their brief eye contact feels more like two penetrating soul scans that end with a mutual blush and awkward look-away. V3 is now a few steps behind the middle-aged African American women. The back of her hair is tied in a bun and she wears a warm coat on this unusually cold winter day -- for Florida's Kennedy Space Center -- under advanced global warming conditions. The corridor leads to the Space Force cafeteria. Its wall is adorned with art in a wide variety of styles and sizes. The woman softly says something to herself, that V can barely hear. V.3 I'm sorry, did you say something? WOMAN Oh, I was just saying, who am I to judge? The sentence started with her glancing back at the art, but ended with her fulling turning to look him in the eyes -- with her own pair -- smiling, in coordination with her full lips -- all welcoming. Inviting. V.3 Yes, who are you to judge? His tone was stern, but his expression melted into an affirmation that returned her invitation with an implied, but unperformed, wink. WOMAN Whoa, you said that so forcefully. One might say, judgementally? The game was afoot, they both thought to themselves. V.3 Yup. That's me. A judge-mentalist from a long line of Judge-mentals. And from where I stand now, there's more beautiful art to consider than what's hanging on this wall. WOMAN Oh, I like you. Especially, you're taste. She laughs and compulsively puts her arm around his waist. A bold, momentary move, which she would have retracted, had he not returned the gesture with his own arm. It was all in line with the open, unguarded and playful tone they had both unabashedly offered and accepted. They now walk together. V.3 And to think. I entered this cafeteria, alone and uninspired. And in the flash of an eye, I'm alive and coupled. Would it be forward of me to offer to buy you a cup of coffee? WOMAN Well, considering your arm is already around my waist. And I like it. I'd be delighted, sir. My name is Munda. She extends her free hand and they shake. Her grip is a little weak -- like her knees at the moment. V.3 V--Salvator V. It's my pleasure to hold you. MUNDA Salvator? What an odd name for an...Italian? (she teased) V.3 Yes, well, the most famous of us Sals was Salvador Dali, with the Spanish spelling with a D. But there was that great work of art by Leonardo Da Vinci called Salvator Mundi. What a coincidence. Sounds like your name. What was it again? I'm sorry, it'll take me hearing it 2 or 3 times before I remember it. MUNDA Munda, Munda, Munda. There. Now you're under my spell! V.3 Obviously. The dance continued. Feet in sync -- all the way to the nearest, most secluded coffee table available. MUNDA And doesn't Salvator mean savior? V.3 Indeed it does. MUNDA Well, we'll have to see about that. The flirtations and expectations were more than V's subconscious could handle. When he was in a dream, and got too excited, he'd immediately wake up. He was. And he did. But he almost wished it was, just, a dream. But it wasn't. It was a memory. His memory of another loved one left behind to bare the full weight of humanity's pig-headed arrogance and ignorance. Regardless. Today would be a good day. Like Lindy, V3 had the beach to look forward to.
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V.3 · Mon at 05:12 PM 3 days