There are many futures.

It wasn’t the virus that destroyed us, it was the reaching out for help, just the thought of it was enough.

ARDIS PART ONE BY LINDSAY SMITH 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 118

Spence leans in, breathes on the face of the Egyptian king. Anyway, he looks happy, Spence says.

Ardis gives this some thought and then she asks, did we see the Mona Lisa?

A tour group of Chinese shuffle past. One of them stops, jostles Spence aside, and takes a shot of the happy king. So many art lovers, Spence says.

There’s no happiness, right? Ardis says. You have to embrace your unhappiness. She puts on a brave face, “Like I do.”

“You’ll end up in a glass case too,” Spence says, and then, “How long is it now?”

What are you talking about?

Your research project, how long have you been working on it? Four years?

Three. Well, this is the fourth year, Ardis says. So what are you getting at?

Four years! Don’t you think that’s long enough?

Ardis in a vacant voice, but I need more time.

Spence huffs in irritation. He grabs Ardis’s arm. Nothing has come of it, Spence says. There’s nothing new.

Ardis pulls away, takes a few steps. Turns back to Spence with a distressed look. That’s just it. There is.

===

You like the coffee? Spence asks.

Yes, it’s nice.

It’s the best, Peru.

Spence studies the tourists, a foot tapping anxiously. Ardis pushes away the empty cup. I like this village too, except it is fake, Ardis says.

What do you mean fake?

It’s done up for the tourists.

Prettified? Spence stands up. There’s something I want you to see, he says.

Oh what?

He leads her along a dirt path that crosses fields of purple flowers glowing in the sun. Ardis looks back at the tourist village. Jimmy, it’s pretty.

Spence pushes open a weathered wooden door in a stone wall. The village graveyard, Spence says.

But why?

On the gravel path Spence puts a hand on Ardis’s arm. This is authentic, no tourists. Old cypresses soak up the sun, wild dry grass spikes the shadows.

Ardis’s stomach turns, Spence is gripping her arm too tight. What is it? she asks. What do you want me to see?

Along here, Spence says, his voice strangled. He stops at a grave overgrown by a gnarled olive tree.

Ardis refuses to look. Where’s the village from here?

Spence shakes her arm. Just look.

Cut in the stone the name Harrison Wells. Ardis won’t look, why bother?

Spence shifts his feet, the gravel crackles. You see darling? This is where he is. Ardis, a silent cry, no, no.

Spence takes several steps back the way they had come. That’s all, let’s go.

Now Ardis stares at the grave. Is that all? Then she sees the other grave, right next to it, like a twin.

Edith Wells.

Edith Wells? That can’t be right.