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I ran a forefinger across the surface of my cappuccino, gathering froth and cocoa powder before dipping it into my mouth.
“Okay, Desert Island Discs time.” Rebecca leaned forward and placed a hand on mine, her palms warm and soft. “Actually, I already know you’re into crap eighties music. How about books?”
A gust of air blew past us as the coffee shop door swung open. It sounded like a couple of women. “I don’t know. It’s not like I can read.”
“Audio, dummy. It still counts as reading.”
I took a sip of coffee. “Terry Pratchett’s Discworld stuff, I guess. William Gibson, Alistair Reynolds, Robin Hobb, Brandon Sanderson. I don’t know. Just good SFF stuff, I suppose.”
Her hand drifted away from mine. “What about proper books?”
A crease lined my brow. “Proper? I already said I only listen to audio. I tried the audio thing on my e-reader, but it sounded like a bad robot.”
She laughed “No, dummy. I wasn’t asking about kids’ books. I’m talking about books for people older than twelve.”
I folded my arms and sank into my chair. “They’re not kids’ books.”
“You just rattled off a bunch of science fiction and fantasy authors.” She sniffed. “That’s kids’ stuff.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Have you read A Song of Ice and Fire?”
“You know nothing, Jon Snow. I have a life. I don’t have time for a billion-hour audiobook.”
“But you know Jon Snow?”
“I watched the TV series.”
“Right.” I took a drink and sighed. “They really dropped the ball with that last season.”
“I didn’t get that far. There’s only so much stupid dragon stuff I can cope with.”
“How about The Stormlight Archive?”
“Nope. I don’t know what that is.”
“It’s epic fantasy.”
“Sounds crap. I told you, I read proper books. You’re eighteen soon, you should do the same. It’s time to grow up.”
“What, like non-fiction?”
“No. As in, Hemingway, Dickens, the Brontës, Jane Austen. You know, proper authors.”
“So, you think books are only any good if they’re set in Victorian England and have aristocrats moaning about the manners of those young hoodlums?”
Rebecca let out a laugh. “I wouldn’t say that exactly. I mentioned Hemingway. There’s Fitzgerald too. You can add Tom Wolfe to that. Hunter S. Thompson. Iain Banks.”
“Oh, I like Iain Banks. His Culture series is awesome. The drones always crack me up...and the talking ships.”
She huffed. “That’s Iain M. Banks. I think the M stands for ‘moronic,’ or ‘mind-numbingly boring sci-fi crap’ or something.”
“You should give it a try sometime.”
She snorted out another laugh. “What? Stories about dwarves and dragons and space rockets and aliens.” She put on a deep, booming voice. “Now, I must complete my quest to capture the chalice of garble-blarg from the wicked gnomes and the evil wizard of Thantar!” She smacked the table, laughing. “It’s so dumb.”
“Yeah, yeah. So, what? We should all be reading books about people going to Bath, wondering if Lord Percy is going to return his letter about the Lady Elizabeth’s betrothal and whether he is a man of means with a thousand pounds a year?”
“Now who sounds ridiculous?
“You’re the one who started with a strawman. Of course things sound ridiculous if you take the most ridiculous elements and deliver them in a stupid voice.”
“My voice wasn’t as stupid as yours.”
“I didn’t put on a—” I gave her shoulder a playful shove. “It’s a strawman argument. I won’t stand for it.”
“Where did you hear that, on a TED Talk or something?”
“No—”
“I bet there are talking scarecrows in those fantasy books you read.”
I squinted for a moment, racking my brain. “I don’t think so. It would be quite cool though.”
“Talking scarecrows?”
“Why not? I suppose there’s one in The Wizard of Oz.”
“I’ll give you The Wizard of Oz.”
“What? Because it’s old?” I drummed my fingers on the table.
“No, because it’s good.”
“It really isn’t, is it? It makes no sense whatsoever that in a world with trees and precipitation there would be an advanced humanoid that could be destroyed by water.”
“I think it’s a metaphor.”
“For lazy writing, maybe.” I took a slurp of my drink. “It’s a metaphor for crap.”
“So’s fantasy!”
I sniggered. “Says the girl who believed that unicorns existed? Until you were like twelve-years-old.”
“And when I found out they didn’t, I got real.”
“Not everything has to be serious, you know? It’s good to escape once in a while.”
“Like you do in Gambit?”
I sniffed. “The game you try to destroy, you mean?”
Silence hung between us for a long moment.
Rebecca shifted and cleared her throat. “Okay, what about TV then? What kind of stuff do you like to watch?”
“I don’t know. I plead the fifth.”
She gave a sharp laugh. “Plead the fifth? Like you’re in some kind of American cop drama?”
“You’ll only make fun of me.”
She rested a hand on mind and softened her voice. “I promise I won’t.”
“Now I know you’re lying.” I drew my hand away.
She laughed. “No, seriously. I promise I’ll try not to make fun of you.”
“Good.”
“Unless you deserve it,” she whispered before sipping her drink.
I rubbed the scar on my neck and let out a sigh. “Fine. I love Battlestar Galactica.”
Coffee sprayed across the table as she let out a spluttering laugh.
“What?”
“More spaceships?”
“Is this where you’re going to give me a lecture about watching proper stuff? Unless the soundtrack’s got a harpsicord and there’s a scene where some cockney washerwoman spreads gossip about Lord Percy’s betrothal then it’s not worth watching?”
“Well, not exactly.”
“So what do you like then?”
“Mad Men, Breaking Bad, The Wire, Downton Abbey, Handmaid’s Tale.”
“See, you do like science fiction.” I grinned.
“No, I don’t.”
“Handmaid’s Tale is definitely sci-fi.”
“It isn’t. It’s about religious extremists taking over America.”
“It’s dystopian sci-fi. It’s speculations about the future. It’s science fiction and now you hate it.”
“There are no robots, no aliens. It’s drama.”
I laughed. “Someone sounds defensive.”
“I’m not being defensive, rocket boy. You just can’t handle being wrong.”
“You know it’s okay to like science fiction? The literary police are not going to come after you and force you to read something where Lord Percy goes to Bath to offer—”
“I still say you’re wrong,” she interrupted. “I’m sure Margaret Atwood would agree.”
I sighed. “What is it then? As far as I can tell it’s dystopian sci-fi mixed with a bit of alternative history.”
“It’s...It’s...It’s...Okay, maybe you’re partially right. But it’s good. So, that makes me the most right.”
“You should give Battlestar Galactica a chance. Maybe ignore the last episode though.”
“Yeah, right. And then it will be Star Trek and Babylon 5. What was that weird one with Australians in bondage gear?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. Farscape? And I think it was New Zealand.”
“Same thing.”
“I wouldn’t let Kiwis hear you say that.”
“What was that one by the guy who did Buffy?”
“Firefly?”
“That’s the one.”
“Choose your words carefully. Firefly was awesome.”
“Of course it was.”
“I’ll ignore your sarcasm and take you at your word. You should check out Cowboy Bebop too.”
“Isn’t that a cartoon?”
I let out a sigh. “It’s an anime series.”
“Ooh, anime. Now that sounds pretentious. It’s a cartoon, dummy. Cartoons are dumb.”
“It’s not dumb. It’s like a bounty hunter Western in space, but with great characters and an awesome soundtrack.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t have time for cartoons.” She patted at the expelled coffee with a paper napkin. “I’ve got the collected poems of William Blake waiting for me at home, and you want me to waste time watching cowboys in space.”
“They’re not cowboys, exactly. Did you ever watch The Expanse?”
“What did I just say about William Blake?” She pretended to yawn.
My phone rang and I fished it out of my pocket.
“Is your ringtone from a video game?”
“It’s from the Starlight Zone in Sonic. It makes me smile.”
“Such a nerd.”
I pressed the answer button. “Hello?”
“Brian?” a man’s voice asked.
“Yeah.”
“It’s Paul from Guide Dogs. We spoke last week.”
“Oh, hey.”
“I was wondering if you’re free tomorrow to do your mobility assessment?”
“That sounds good. What time?
“Shall we say after lunch? Maybe around two?”
“Do I get to meet my dog?”
Paul laughed. “It won’t be yet. We need a trainer to match you up with a pup. This is just the first stage. We’ll assess your mobility needs and then we’ll put you on the waiting list.”
“That sounds great.”
Okay, I’ll see you then.”
“Thanks. Bye.” I ended the call and slid the phone back into my pocket.
“Who was that?” Rebecca asked.
“Guide Dogs. They’re going to assess me.”
“Right.” Her voice sounded distant.
“What?”
“Doesn’t matter. I need to go.” She rose to her feet and opened her cane.
I sat back in my seat and sighed, wondering what I had done. “Bye then.”