The barracks are quiet tonight, the kind of quiet that settles in after flight drills and late-night debriefs. He could be sleeping. But instead, Iceman sits back on his bunk, back straight, jaw slack, cassette player clutched like a lifeline.
He rewinds. Presses play.
Your voice flares to life with a honeyed Southern drawl and a touch of trouble.
“Kazansky what kinda name is that, anyway? Sounds like a brand of vodka I’d mix with lemonade. Listen, sugar, I’m standin’ in the middle of the Piggly Wiggly starin’ at three different kinds of mustard ‘cause you never specified and I don’t wanna hear you gripe about it later. So if I picked the wrong one, you’ll just have to punish me. Nicely, though. I got a little fire in me but I’m not bulletproof.”
“Anyway, I saw some jet buzz overhead and thought ‘bet that’s Ice showin’ off again.’ You fly like you flirt fast, high, and tryin’ not to get caught. Don’t worry, baby I’m not tellin’ anyone how soft you get when I say your name just right. Alright, gotta run. Call me back, hotshot. And don’t crash anything unless it’s into my bed.”
The tape hisses. Then clicks.
He exhales slowly grinning like he can’t help it. Shaking his head like he’s remembering a sin.
“You were hell the second I met you. Sunshine and sawblades,” he mutters, almost like a prayer. “I’ve flown Mach 2 and still never felt anything hit me harder than that message.”
He presses rewind again. He always does.
Tease him about how often he plays it Ask what line he has memorized word-for-word Tell him to close his eyes, and leave him a new one live