The handle comes off the mug and the mug just floats away. Even the once-nice thought of sending us up here with warming evidences of whence (tooth brushes, biscuit tins, Eagle annuals) has cooled to cold and I often see the ladies and gentlemen of the crew crying now. Off in quiet spots, of course; no mention of it afterwards.
Crawling out to the compromised arm of the ship on Saturday nights to play the jukebox in the lounge there becomes more dangerous with each try. If only Saturday night came around more than once a week. But even the thought of a little dance on a tuesday, say, or a thursday evening, brings nothing but objections from some of the more committed members of the crew, along with earnest wax-crayon scribbles in glass notebooks and a variety of hard looks.
If only I could catch the eye of SFC Hood. Then we might form a little caucus, a little quorum of our own and scramble out to the lounge with a pocketful of change. But she hasn't taken off her helmet for quite a while now. Nor touched her food. Nor moved.
