Friday, August 1st, 2076
"All sounds good," said Al. "I rarely turn down a good steak." He silently congratulated himself on the subtlety of his wordplay.
The car was air-conditioned, which was a good thing. The Lizard Peninsula was the warmest place in Britain, and what better day to demonstrate that than the first day of August? Al had his coat off as they got into the car. Grace had offered to stow it in the trunk (boot, she'd called it - these charming Brits and their crazy way of talking) along with Alyce's bag (which Al had carried), but he wouldn't part with it, keeping it on his seat beside him or in his hand the entire journey. The mid-morning sun when he'd gotten up had caused him to pick a frayed wifebeater up off the floor instead of the T-shirt that had been crumpled alongside it. Without the jacket, Grace could see the fetishes he kept on leather thongs around his neck and upper left arm, along with the hodgepodge of tattoos on his arms and the periphery of the work on his back. Tufts of hair threatened to run riot from the low collar. The muscles on his upper body were not large, but rippled visibly under skin that showed the slackness that age and years of illness will bring.
For her part, young Grace was professionally groomed, but dressed for the heat, with a new-looking white tank top and khaki shorts finished off by hiking boots. She was slender and muscular, the brevity of her trousers revealing thighs that spoke to a good diet of sport or hiking. Unlike a lot of very fit girls, however, she was well enough endowed to challenge her tank top's attempts to protect her modesty. She wore no make-up, that Al could see, and her blond hair was long enough not to look butch, but short enough she was getting away with not having done much with it. She didn't have any ink - at least not that Al could see - which matched her scrubbed, country girl look.
Alyce was still in her fetching little sundress, the light fabric dancing daintily with every dash of breeze, its colors matching her dark hair and somehow not clashing with the funky shades. Where did a blind chick get that sort of fashion sense? Maybe she hired shoppers. More likely, he imagined, she had her entire wardrobe replicated in some hot-sim VR host, allowing her to perfectly coordinate her look in her little headware bit of unreality before wearing everything to such shimmering effect among the meatbound. As the light cloth whipped around her upper thighs, he remembered he hadn't watched her dress this morning, and couldn't help wondering what, if anything, was between her and the ground.
They got into the car and Grace got her first strike, politely explaining that the car service did not allow smoking in its vehicles. Al figured it wasn't her fault, so he didn't give her a hard time, simply saying, "Well I hope we's makin' a lot o' sightseein' stops." Which elicited a smile and an assurance they could stop at any time. Al figured if the Good Lord hadn't meant for people to smoke, he wouldn't have given them lungs.
And so they set off, Al and Alyce nestled into the comfortable rear seat, his scarred hand a rough presence on the silky skin of her leg, Grace pointing the car up the A30 towards Penzance.
Al couldn't help but hope they ran into some pirates.