Front Man

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Ron picked up Thump’s shirt and examined it front and back. A Pendleton, a wistful plaid of white and azure that Ron had bought before the brisk weather had set in. Each wool fiber caught the October sun like a prism, and the tiny explosions of color almost reminded him of… what? Memory balked. Something caught in his throat. Expectation?

Tonight he’d meet one of the Noiesni at Chad’s party. Full of anticipation, Ron let the memory escape, whatever it had been. Maybe the past wasn’t as important when there was hope.

The Noiesni had come without fanfare, conferring first with PR agencies. Publicists had helped mankind meet an ancient and peaceable race, so advanced that they moved space as easily as they moved through it. Tonight Ron would get to know one of the Noiesni, shake his hand, maybe talk about the beautiful weather.

Ron dropped the Pendleton back onto the heap. Changeable weather had melded with Thump’s sweat so that all his clothes had an earthy scent. Thump had a dozen moods, but one scent. Ron settled onto the bed and eased his arms into the shopping bag, slipped out a worsted pullover, green as a cedar forest. Thump’s new gray slacks hung from a hanger hitched over the closet doorknob.

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