that thereâs nothing left.â
âAnd you enjoy that?â
âWell, they enjoy that. Theyâre driven to it. Iâm just a bystander to their quest. And I enjoy that . Itâs old-school, but I like to watch.â
âSo you are basically fun times to date.â
âI pull my weight, romantically. Iâm not stingy. I supply locations. I supply funding. Transportation. Iâm kind of an executive producer. I can greenlight stuff.â
âNobody cums unless you say so, right?â
âThatâs not real power,â she said, as if such a thing was actually under her control. She frowned. âThatâs bookkeeping. Not my thing at all. Anyway, I think the romantic phase of my life is probably over now. My options wonât be the same. Freedom.â
âJail time?â asked George.
âItâs not exactly jail for someone like me. But itâs fine if you imagined it that way. That would be nice.â
George hated to do it. They were having such a good time, and she must get this a lot, but he was her last living blood relative and didnât he merit some consideration over all the hangers-on who no doubt lived pretty well by buzzing around in her orbit?
âAll right, so, I mean, youâre rich, right? Like insanely so?â
Pattern nodded carefully.
âYou could, like, buy anything?â
âMy money is tied up in money,â Pattern said. âItâs hard to explain. You get to a point where a big sadness and fatigue takes over.â
âNot me,â said George. âI donât. Anyway, I mean, it wouldnât even make a dent for you to, you know, solve my life financially. Just fucking solve it. Right?â
Pattern smiled at him, a little too gently, he thought. It seemed like a bad news smile.
âYou know the studies, right?â
Dear god Jesus. âWhat studies?â
âAbout what happens when people are given a lot of money. People like you, with the brain and appetites of an eleven-year-old.â âTell me.â Heâd let the rest of the comment go.
âItâs not good.â
âWell I donât fucking want it to be good . I want it to be fun.â
âI donât think itâs very fun, either, Iâm afraid.â
âDonât be afraid, Pattern. Leave that to me. I will be very afraid, I will be afraid for two, and never have to worry about money again. Depraved, sordid, painful. Iâll go for those. Let me worry about how it will feel.â
Pattern laughed into her drink.
âSweet, sweet Georgie,â she said.
It was getting late, and the whispering interruptions had increased, Patternâs harried staff scurrying around them, no doubt plotting the extraction. An older gentleman in a tuxedo came out to their couch and held up a piece of paper for Pattern, at eye level, which, to George, sitting right next to her, looked perfectly blank.
Pattern studied it, squinting, and sighed. She shifted in her seat.
âArmageddon,â said George. âTime to wash my drones with my drone towel!â
Pattern didnât smile.
âI hate to say it, little George, but I think Iâm going to have to break this up.â
He didnât like this world, standing up, having to leave. Everything had seemed fine back on the couch.
âHere,â Pattern said, giving him a card. âSend your bills to William.â
âHa ha.â
âWhat?â
âYour joke. That you obviously donât even know you just made.â
She was checking her phone, not listening.
On the street they hugged for a little while and tried to say goodbye. A blue light glowed from the back seat of Patternâs car. George had no idea who she was, what she really did, or when he would ever see her again.
âDo you think I can be in your life?â George asked. âIâm not sure why but it feels scary to ask you that.â
He tried to
Learning to Kill: Stories