Still Life by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Still Life
Page 169
small vial labeled Importance. With theatrical flair, he’d inject it into his neck, sigh deeply, and whisper, “Classified.”
Then he’d walk away, leaving Martin with the vague scent of ego and expired cologne.
This happened daily. Martin tried different routes. Gregory adapted. Martin once wore a disguise. Gregory complimented his “bold new look” and reminded him, again, that he worked for Sandia Labs.
One day, Crouton; fed up with the ritual, dragged Martin toward Gregory’s house. The lawn was immaculate, the mailbox shaped like a stealth bomber. Martin knocked.
Gregory answered in a bathrobe embroidered with the Sandia logo. “Ah, Martin. I was just decrypting something.”
“Gregory,” Martin said, “I’m genuinely curious. What do you actually do?”
Gregory’s eyes twinkled. He pulled out a larger vial labeled Ultra Importance, injected it into his temple, and whispered, “If I told you, I’d have to redact your memories.”
Then he handed Martin a pamphlet titled “Why You’ll Never Understand Me,” and closed the door.