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Issue — May The holiday suit is a cooperative swarm of microorganisms, a pale paramecium shroud that coats her entire body, wetly glistening. Where will you be off to? She buys two: one for her and one for Charlie, who is predictably unimpressed by the sleek black designer biocanisters and their not insignificant price tag. He was tapping them in a tetchy circuit, but now stops. He watches its approach with a bereaved expression, likely thinking how Hemingway or some other dead person would have never deigned to wear a holiday suit traveling through southern Portugal.
Let it taste your gut flora. She wears her holiday suit to the airport, just to be safe. In fact, she has worn it about the house for the past few days as well—partly because the salesperson recommended letting the swarm familiarize itself with her biorhythms, and partly because she has grown to enjoy its soft scurrying. He catches up to her at the gate, which is dutifully flashing ads for carbon sequestration as the travelers embark.
She can slice out the background chatter of the other passengers if she likes, or the whirring of the armed security drones. No chilly gust at her ankles, no bone-dry air scraping at her face. Maeve marvels at the cleverness of the semipermeable membrane, which allows her water bottle through with no issue but rejects the foil-packaged nuts as an allergen hazard. During landing the holiday suit even slips a little filament down her ear canal, to mediate the pressure change. They stride, hand-in-hand, through a charmingly small airport populated mostly by maintenance bots.
They breathe deep contented breaths. Faro is a daydream. She and Charlie wander down canted cobblestone toward the sea, relishing the sunshine and the salt breeze. The crumbling castle wall is utterly deserted; they walk along its overgrown base and run their hands over the ancient stone.
