Long Short Story

“So, what’s the name of this place you plan on renovating?” Mr. Eldridge asked, glancing up from the desk.
“Hart’s Content,” Aaron Prescott replied, his voice unusually calm and devoid of enthusiasm. Inside, though, he felt a jittery uncertainty, masking the anxiety churning just beneath his composed exterior.
“And I’d call it a restoration, not just a renovation. The house is on its last foundations. I’d be surprised if it lasted another year like this.”
Eldridge eyed him inquisitively and leaned forward in his chair, hard-edged gaze unwavering.

The boat docked at 2100. I stared beyond the eastern sky as the moon reflected off the silent sea. A look back down at the clipboard in my hands showed a list of every passenger on the cruise, all 37 of them. The Karnival Platinum Express had finally finished its maiden journey. I stood in front of the crowd of passengers and spoke.
“As I said prior, please form a line in an orderly fashion in alphabetical order. Starting with Madam Ashton and continuing onward.”
One of the passengers, the one who had beckoned me onto this craft, came sprinting towards my position the quickest she could. Her heels clicked in a chorus of despair.

A cheerful hold tone played in Arun’s apartment. It was not coming from the laptop. Not from the phone. Not from the small studio monitors on his desk. Not from the cheap Bluetooth speaker he had once bought during a sale and immediately regretted because it made bass sound like wet cardboard. It was just there, soft and patient, looping imperfectly under the morning sounds of Chennai: a pressure cooker from another flat, a scooter horn from the street, somebody dragging a plastic chair across tiled floor, a devotional song leaking through one wall as if someone else’s god had left the evening open and forgotten to close it.