Martian Red

The ship trudged along. A low, steady buzz from the life support systems. The refrigerator in the kitchen.

Frankie checked the curtains. Drawn tight. The black void of space was sealed off.

-Warp drive is holding, he said. We’re in deep space now.

Red was already at the wet bar. She rummaged through a cabinet.

-Found their stash, she called out. Looks like the officers were hoarding the good stuff.

She held up a bottle. Dust coated the label.

-Vintage Martian Red, she declared. Harvest of Year 276. The dust storms made that a good year for the wine, if not the people.

Frankie loosened his collar.

-Pour it, he said. We earned it.

Red popped the cork and poured two glasses.

She walked over to Frankie as if she were in zero-gravity, and handed him a glass.

-To the escape, he said, raising his glass.

-To the getaway, she corrected.

She tumbled down next to him on the couch. The "Captain’s Chair." She kicked her legs up, resting them on the coffee table.

They clinked glasses.

Frankie took a sip. It was a cheap Merlot.

-Smooth, he lied.

-Like a nebula, she agreed.

She watched him over the rim of her glass.

-You fly good, Frankie, she said.

Frankie leaned back. He looked at the ceiling fan spinning slowly above them. The radar dish.

-I have a good co-pilot, he said.

Red smiled. She traced the rim of her glass with a fingernail.

-So,- she whispered. Now that we're drifting, what's the plan?

-You said it, Frankie said. -We drift.

-I like the sound of that, she said. She moved her legs from the coffee table to his lap. Just you, me, and the stars.