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Judas (standard:science fiction, 4177 words)
Author: CyranoAdded: Nov 04 2012Views/Reads: 3192/796Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Frank is two thousand years old, face to live through eternity with his deceit.
 



Frank feverishly dug around in his coat pockets, searching for
cigarettes. Pulling out a half-crumpled pack of Marlboro Lights, he 
tapped the top of the pack against the palm of his left hand, slipping 
out a damaged smoke, which he shot to the side of his mouth. There it 
hung, loosely, trembling between his lips, as he fluttered the 
lighter's flame all around it. Had she guessed? He wondered. If she 
had, he was done for. Holy crap, what made me do it? He asked himself. 
Never once, not in two thousand years, had his friendships been 
improved once they knew about him. Frank drew deeply on the cigarette, 
holding the smoke in his lungs for a long time. It calmed him. She was 
the last one he'd wanted to find out. Not that it was the kind of 
relationship likely to go anywhere, how could it? Down the centuries, 
he'd never made friendships work. 

Frank looked like any other man, adopted the same habits, adjusted to
whatever society he happened found himself in. A gift, some called it, 
Frank knowing the weather a hundred years from now, having lived 
through every summer that had followed every winter since Christ had 
been crucified. In all that time, the only thing that had remained the 
same was the sunset; the pink and gold. Frank drew again on his 
cigarette. This time, when he exhaled, he was sitting inside a car. It 
didn't matter which car, or what kind, they all worked the same to 
Frank. On the street, the lights were out. Somewhere in the darkness, a 
woman was walking home alone. 

The woman is Kathryn Robinson; she has fiery red hair, still damp from
being caught in an earlier rain shower, and now walking with a 
quickened pace, in the dark toward home. Her date with Frank hadn't 
gone exactly as planned, a fact that caused her to smile as she walked. 
It was true; their date hadn't gone anything like the way she'd 
imagined. She had first met Frank a year ago, quite by accident than 
design, or as she now recalled, an occurrence after she had stupidly 
lost her purse, holding the keys to her new apartment. Frank wasn't an 
unhandsome individual, being tall, with dark hair, and fierce blue 
eyes. He just happened to be a guy who worked in the subway, whom she'd 
observed from time to time, as she made her way home from the hospital; 
where she worked as a nurse, in Charring Cross. Two years had passed 
since her divorce, and just a few weeks since moving into the new 
apartment, above a launderette, in Tottenham Court High Road. 

As the rain started to fall once again, Kathryn pulled up her coat-hood
and thought over how they'd first met. He was a guy she'd occasionally 
seen, either sweeping the platform, or washing advertising boards. On 
Tuesday last, she'd lost her purse somewhere between work and home, not 
realizing till she'd got to the door of her flat and needed the door 
key. She recalled the panic that set in: no purse, no keys, no money, 
and no cell phone! It had been an awful day at work, and now this. She 
was just thinking there was no justice in the world, when a car drew up 
at the curbside. The passenger window wound down. The driver, leaning 
across the passenger seat, held his hand out the window, from which her 
purse hung. She didn't immediately recognize the man, only the purse. 
She stepped toward the car, sighing with relief. 

“Oh, my word. Thank you. How did you...?” 

She was gently interrupted. 

“Sorry. I had to take a look inside. I found your driving license.” 

“Wait! I remember you; I've seen you at the subway. I'm so grateful.” 

“You're welcome. You have a good evening.” And he raised his hand in
friendly fashion. 

“I will now, thank you again.” Kathryn turned away, climbing the steps
up to the apartment, and then turned back, momentarily. 

“What's your na...?” Her mouth fell agape. The car...the driver... gone!
She hadn't even heard the car pull away from the curbside. It was as if 
she'd dreamt it all; except the purse was now in her hand. 

That thought brought a grin to her wet cheeks. She remembered how she
had looked out for him over the next few days, even weeks, but never 
caught even a glimpse of him. That was until the evening of April 1st. 
It was raining, and it was one year later, she saw him. She walked up 


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