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I go out and meet Miguel. He's already out there and he looks fresher. I can't tell where his mouth was bleeding, it must have been inside his lip. He straightened his shirt. I don't see any marks on his jaw where I know he took at least a couple of hits. I get another guilty pang with that thought, but I shove it aside, reassuring myself again that he's just fine, after all. But he's still tense, I'm sure of that. "You sure this is okay with you?" I ask him. "Anything you want, baby, anything you want." So he puts his hand on the back of my neck as we walk along. We go in and grab a booth in the back of the bar area where it's darkest and where there's least likelihood of roaming Romulans coming up to us. When the waiter comes, I order a Warp Core Breech and Miguel tries to get one, too, but I tell him we'll share. He looks at me strangely. When it comes out, bigger than a goldfish bowl, purple and smoking all over the place, he smirks at me and says, "Now that's a fuckin' drink. Trekkies know how to party, huh?" As we lean in and start sucking away at our straws, I get some weird mental flash of us as if someone else was watching us. Like we're some sort of distorted, grown-up, Gen-X, sullied version of the Lady and The Tramp spaghetti scene. Except that I'm no Lady. Or lady. And I just nearly got Tramp
skinned alive.
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