Sufficiently Un-Advanced

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“How do we get out?” said Effie.

“Not sure,” said Ned.

He pulled a tuft of his red hair, straightened his white, dirt-repellent shirt-sleeves, and stepped forward to try the door again. No dice. He shot a glance at Effie, hoping to look as handsome as she looked entrancing in her Swerve-Fit skirt-suit, the seams of which adjusted with her every movement. Her hairdo—a lively chocolate affair—changed with her moods. It looked a bit shy, before. Now it had an unnerved quiver to it.

And here they stood, locked in.

The museum had emptied. The others would be down the street. They planned to meet for coffee before leaving first for the shopping mall nearby, then for the hotel. It gnawed at him, that the guide might usher everyone else into the bus, leaving the two of them behind.

“That docent must be here somewhere,” he said.

His hard soles clicked across the floor; her soft ones murmured alongside. It gave him a quiet thrill to take decisive action. The two of them, true enough, faced no greater peril than being locked in: yet missing the bus—! Who knew where the others might eat tonight?

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