We Float Upon a Painted Sea by Christopher Connor

Liverpool...” Saffron barked,
    “Turn that propaganda shit off. If most of you men averted your eyes from her breasts and thighs and listened to what she was saying, you would realise that only lies come out of those painted lips. She isn't real, she's a computer generated animation. Look, I'm not wearing a shackle. You believe what big tits on your Shackle is feeding you if you want, I'd rather think for myself.”
    “It’s for your own protection – the streets are not safe out there.”
    “Open your eyes, Faerrleah. You’re beginning to sound like my father and, no offence, but he’s Mr Responsible . I wouldn’t listen to him, so why should I listen to you?” Bull shook his head. He slumped back down on the sofa and pulled one of Saffron’s boho cushions towards his stomach. He squeezed it and said,
    “Fine, have it your way, but you said yourself that democracy always reverts to a Plutocracy. So why do you deplore its demise?” Saffron's laugh was a cynical one. She said,
    “I remember you thinking Plutocracy was a canine government led by a Disney cartoon character.” “I was being facetious.”
    “Were you really?” Bull looked at his feet. Saffron continued, “Look Faerrleah, people in this country fought for centuries to eradicate dictators and tyrants...” Bull interrupted saying,
    “Now you’re beginning to sound like my dad.”
    “We may still have a vote and free speech, but this is not democracy, not like we should have, not where ordinary people have their say and are listened to outside an election campaign. The government might change its appearance every five years, but the face behind the mask remains the same. A network of privileged elite still make the rules, and the bourgeoisie order is still in place. The defrauding bankers still walk the street, still enjoying their protected status and propped up by public taxes, which used to be spent on the people, while those who protest against injustices like this and the rape of our planet are put behind bars. I wish you would open your eyes.”
     
    Saffron waited a moment to see how he would respond. Finally, she knelt beside him and said, “What’s this all about anyway, something has really gotten into you, and it’s not because I don’t wear a Shackle.” Bull lent forward, brushed the hair from her ear and sniffed. He said,
    “I think you forgot your notebook with your ten point plan in your rush to fly off and meet Maurice. It’s lying over on the table.”
    “I really wish you wouldn't do that sniffing thing. Why do you do that? Why do you have to sniff everyone? I would like to know.” Bull stood up, barging into the coffee table and knocking the wine bottle and glass to the floor as he left the room. Saffron shouted,
    “You didn’t tell me what you thought of the boat? I spent a whole day painting it. And the Solar panels got fitted yesterday.” Bull pretended he couldn’t hear her as he stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.
     
    Saffron made herself a cup of peppermint tea and sat staring out of the galley window biting her fingernails. It was an annoying childhood habit she had struggled to grow out of. She considered Bull's own habit of sniffing people; it initially made her laugh but now it irritated her. She was confused and considered how her relationship with Bull was evolving, and if her ten point plan to wellbeing and happiness honestly reflected her own life. She was surprised at how little of her own advice she was taking. She looked back into the living room and studied the empty bottle, tipped over on the floor. A residual trickle of red wine streamed towards her Myakka hand woven rug. She rushed to intercept the convergence. It was too late.
     
    Later, Bull walked to the galley. He was carrying a fresh shirt and was smoking a brand cigarette. He said,
    “What’s so special about him anyway?”
    “Oh, he’s just got an amazing life force and natural balance, or maybe it’s just the way he