Free Black Widow by Chris Brookmyre

sad and pitiful stakes. I’m heading home to do more work on a pipe-dream project that’s never going to take off, then I’ll have a quick freshen up before heading out to see Blink-183 at the Ironworks.’
    I’m not known for my encyclopaedic knowledge of popular culture, but I was pretty sure this didn’t sound right.
    â€˜Isn’t it Blink-182?’ I asked, hoping I hadn’t got this wrong and was about to look even more ancient and pitiful than I did already.
    â€˜Not at the Ironworks,’ he replied. ‘That’s why I win the sad. I’m spending my Friday night going to see a Blink-182 tribute band. Alone as well. I was meant to be going with a mate, but he’s got man flu. I was internally debating whether it was sadder to be going solo to a gig or to stay in alone instead. Deciding factor is I’ve already spent money on the tickets. Anyway, I’m wittering. Should be done here any second.’
    He closed the window that had been scrolling code then opened up the log-in box again, gesturing me towards the keyboard with a hint of a flourish.
    This time it let me in.
    â€˜You can go home and cry now,’ he said, getting up.
    â€˜Thank you. Enjoy Blink-182. Three,’ I corrected.
    I watched him walk out, closing the door softly behind himself.
    I sighed, feeling the last of the energy drain from my body now that I could finally afford to stand down. A line had been drawn under the week, as Peter had put it, and under this day in particular: this day of trials that had started more than twelve hours ago, kicking off with a squat lobster prompting a revelation about what a sad, lonely mess I was.
    And now I could go home and cry.
    Awesome.
    Awesome Diana with her amazing skills. Who wouldn’t want to be me?
    I was reaching for my jacket when there was another brief knock at the door, then it opened to reveal Peter standing there again. He looked even less sure of himself than the first time. I wondered what he’d forgotten, and hoped to God he didn’t need to do more work on my computer.
    â€˜Look,’ he said. ‘I was just thinking, and I hope this doesn’t seem inappropriate – especially not “harassment complaint” inappropriate – because it’s not a pick-up, but I was wondering if you wanted to trade one sad for another. See, I’ve got a spare ticket for a dodgy Blink-182 tribute band, and after the day you look like you’ve had, maybe what you need is three guys from Ullapool putting on unconvincing American accents and singing about getting blowjobs from your mom, and I can’t believe I just said “blowjobs from your mom”. That probably sealed the harassment thing. But, you know, the offer’s there.’
    Something inside me lit up, and I was aware of feeling it before all of my rational thought processes could bustle in like disapproving relatives.
    It was flattering, even though I knew I wasn’t being asked on a date: merely the prospect of being out in the company of someone young, bright, attractive and male instantly picked me off the floor. For a moment I caught a glimpse of a different self I might be, and I needed to see myself differently right then. I don’t mean I was deluding myself about how he might see me, because for all I knew he only saw some tragic older woman who he was trying to cheer up. I simply needed something to change, and I saw a new possibility for how this miserable Friday might end.
    â€˜Okay,’ I said.
    He looked a little surprised, and perhaps I was imagining it, but there was a flash of something in his eyes that suggested he was genuinely pleased.

TERRA INCOGNITA
    Three hours later I was regretting my decision, cursing my emotional fragility as I waited alone on Chapel Street, feeling like there was a neon sign above my head spelling out the words ‘Stood Up’.
    I had spent much of the intervening time asking myself what the