Strange Trades by Paul di Filippo

instructed.
    Nerfball emerged from his ablutions then, and Honeyman put him back to making sandwiches, transferring Beatbox to the register, where his passion for culinary recombinations would get little play.
    “Hello, Rory,” said a woman. Her voice, though known only for a fortnight, bore for Honeyman all the deep familiarity and intimate thrill of the voice of one’s lifetime mate, heard under a hundred circumstances over several decades.
    Turning from the register, Honeyman saw Addie standing among the crowd of hungry customers, patient, radiant, gorgeous.
    Hastily doffing his apron, Honeyman ducked under the hinged portion of the counter and came to stand beside her. He grabbed her in a bear hug, picked her up off the floor, spun her around in a circle, set her down and kissed her with appropriate enthusiasm. There was heartfelt applause from the assembled diners, catcalls and whistles. Addie blushed.
    “Boy, am I glad to see you,” said Honeyman.
    “So I gathered. I’ve got the afternoon off, and wondered if you could get away.”
    “You bet. Hey, Nerf, you’re in charge.”
    Honeyman took Addie’s hand, and marveled how good it felt.
    Meeting Atalanta Swinburne had been the best thing that had happened to him in a long time. She was so stable, so centered, such a calming presence in his life. The perfect antidote to the whirlwind of madness that spondulix and the Beer Nuts had brought into being around him. It seemed almost too much that she should also be witty, beautiful and good. Coming off his breakup with Netsuke, Honeyman had needed someone just like Addie. And here she was, somehow inexplicably attracted to him, with apparently equal intensity.
    Sometimes life could be very good.
    “How’s the addition coming?” asked Addie.
    “Let’s take a look,” said Honeyman, and detoured next door.
    The shop next to Honeyman’s Heroes had been a boutique that had tried to attract an upscale clientele and failed. They had gone under six months ago, and the place had remained vacant since. Honeyman had had little trouble convincing the owner of the building to let him break through the wall and connect the two stores.
    The place was a cacophony of power tools, and smelled of fresh-cut pine boards. The laborers—all paid with spondulix, of course—were putting in a second food preparation area and more dining space, all in anticipation of the increased business the circulation of more spondulix would bring.
    Honeyman inspected a few details, trying to act like a competent businessman, and then gratefully escaped with Addie out into the glorious July day.
    Addie worked for some government agency or another—Honeyman had never quite managed to elicit the details from her—and frequently seemed to have her afternoons free, time which she seemed to enjoy spending with Honeyman.
    “I thought we might go into the city,” she said now, “for a little shopping. I want to go to Canal Street Jeans.”
    “Sounds good to me. But I’ve got to change first. I smell like pastrami.”
    Addie bit his ear. “I like pastrami.”
    It took Honeyman two hours to get dressed.
    It was such a beautiful day that they couldn’t stand the thought of plunging underground on the PATH line to Manhattan, so they decided to take the ferry. It was comparatively slow, but that was hardly a consideration today, when they were out to loaf and amble.
    The ferry terminal—a heroic old building dating from 1907—stood on the water at the south end of town. For many years it had been abandoned and decrepit, slowly falling to ruin. Then the city had revived the ferry service and restored the building to its old splendor. Now boats shuttled daily between Hoboken and Battery Park City.
    Addie and Honeyman stood inside the terminal, in line with the other passengers waiting for a boat to dock. Honeyman thought he saw some of the Beer Nuts in the crowd. Curiously, they all seemed to be decked out in white coveralls and wearing goggles pushed