Temporary

by Hilary Leichter

Sitting in the middle of the sea, we eat under the stars, the sky reflected in the water, an infinite display of light. Darla invites me to serve as the new first mate of human resources. “Permanently?” “Sure,” Darla says, thumbs in her pockets. “We have so many people to replace.” It would be easy. How long have I been here, anyway? I consider the roughness of my hands, the soreness in my throat. “I’ll think about it,” I say, but I’ve already thought about it. It’s the only thing I think about, the ways in which I can’t stay. I close my eyes and wait for the steadiness to arrive, but it never does. On a beautiful afternoon in spring, when the air hits my skin at just the right temperature, with just the right distribution of breeze and sun, the port accepts our ship with a quake. I jolt awake from where I nap in the crow’s nest and find myself positioned at eye level with the sign that hangs over this part of the harbor, a billboard of sorts, a beacon painted in large block letters, stomping across the sky. “Our parent company,” says Darla. Something familiar after so much time away. Major Corp.