You Forgot 'What If?' (Solarpunk Protopia Fiction)

Part 11: Dreams

The Corner Cafe at the top of Bean Tower wasn't really a cafe. Green-and-white striped canvas triangles provided gentle shade to a collection of tables and benches, as well as a bar, bar stools, and a small building. Many of our gardeners left extra produce in the stacked wooden boxes in the shed. There was a small kitchen there as well, perfect for making finger foods.

In a small woven basket—probably one of Chen's—someone had left a few dozen homemade cassava chips. I took a ginger bite of one. They were perfectly crunchy and had probably finished drying earlier today, tasting a bit nutty, spicy and sweet, with just a bit of salt and hot pepper. From the wood boxes I took a handful of bright red tamarillos, one big, juicy tomato, an onion, and a bruised, pale-yellow citrus that might've been yuzu. Rinsing off a knife and cutting board in the small sink, I started chopping.

Sinclair took a seat at a stool under the awning, across the bar from me, where I was chopping. "Can I help?"

"Should only take a minute." I swiftly chopped up the fruits and vegetables, and scraped the bright pieces off the cutting board, into a wood bowl. I finished the mixture with a squeeze from the citrus, and a sprinkle of salt from the shelf under the bar. "There we go." Just before rinsing the cutting board and knife, I took a piece of chalk by the chalk board near the basket of cassava chips. Awesome cassava chips! I wrote. Great recipe! Thank you! - Evan

I grabbed the bowl of salsa and basket of chips, and brought it around the bar to sit with him. "Sort of a version of pico de gallo. And spicy cassava chips." I took one, scooped up the fresh pico de gallo, and popped it in my mouth. A rush of sweet, salty, earthy, and spicy hit my tongue, making me smile. "Don't worry, it's not too spicy," I told him. I had a feeling Sinclair wasn't a huge fan of assertive foods.

He took a small chip, and what might've been the tiniest bit of pico de gallo possible. Still, he nodded. "It's really good. Thank you."

"You're welcome." I smiled and swiveled my bar stool around to gaze at the garden growing tall and lush all around us.

"Is all of this..." He trailed off, taking out his notebook again. "Well, I was going to ask if this was free. But..."

I wiggled my eyebrows. "I think you're getting it."

He took a breath, studying the scratched surface of the bar instead of the garden, thinking. His lip pulled down, an expression of hesitation I hadn't yet seen in him. "Look, all of this is very nice. It's beautiful. Who wouldn't love it here? But..." he looked up at me, expectant.

I met his gaze. "But, what?"

He tilted his head. "Come on. Free energy, free food, no work, no crime..." He raised his brows at me now, his look serious. "I'm a journalist. And if someone won't tell me what the catch is, I'll find it. That's my job."

I nodded slowly. It sounded like a threat, which I wasn't accustomed to here, perhaps the most peaceful place I'd ever known. For a moment it felt like a travesty, like speaking something heretical, in a place that sheltered peace. But, I still didn't think Sinclair was malicious, or had a grudge against The Sink. In fact, since meeting him in person, I got the feeling he was the opposite; he was trying to protect people, no matter how much he might've denied it. I couldn't help but like him a little for that.

I let the offense of the threat, then my frustration, wash over me, then fade. Taking a breath, I looked at Sinclair, and let my respect for him—and maybe a little bit of attraction towards his sharp, dark, guarded eyes—come and go as well. Then, I thought of the last article he'd written, before ever speaking with any of us, and how it had hurt me. That feeling came and went as well, whisked away on the sweet-spicy breeze around the garden.