Peyton Sorenson

Peyton Sorenson

The lights hung low in the concrete arches of the aquatic streets of Venice and they were near indistinguishable as such due to the rain that poured down like sheets from an unrelenting sky. The bar at the Hotel Yorba was closing and Peyton had just called a water taxi, a vaporetto, for her last patron of the night, Stanley.

Stanley came to see Peyton once or twice a week. They had a special relationship that no one on the outside quite understood. He always brought her a brown paper sack that was stained all the way through with heavy cooking grease. Rolled up in the bag were two of the most toxic Hunan wanton’s Saint Mark’s Square could produce, Peyton’s favorite. Also in the bag were half a dozen fortune cookies that all had the same thing inscribed on them vertically on the inside; the number thirty three.

Siren walked into the bar just after Stanley left and ordered an extra dirty electric Skye martini stirred.

“Siren you seem to keep lock step with the algorithmic dance of the rain patterns. They whispered to me you’d be coming.” Said Peyton.

“How is Stanley doing? Does he still commute from Nepal? Khatmandu is it? An odd ball that Stan.” Siren replied.

“Let me just clean up a little here and we can be on our way. I have a few things I want to show you. It has been ages….”

With the flip of a light switch behind the cleaned bar glasses and ash trays there was a loud pop but by the way both Siren and Peyton composed themselves they were fully expecting it. The room went pitch black.