Cold Feet

by Nils Gilbertson

About the Author: Nils Gilbertson is a San Francisco Bay Area native, UC Berkeley graduate, and practicing attorney. In the scarce moments when he is not buried in legal books, Nils enjoys writing mystery and crime fiction. His work is recently featured or forthcoming in Pulp Modern, Thriller Magazine, and Close to the Bone. You can reach him at nilspgilbertson@gmail.com.

Excerpt

Greg opted for cropped trousers and loafers for the wedding—as if his feet weren’t cold enough already. It’s the style, I’m told. But as I stood a few groomsmen away, watching him fidget across from my gowned younger sister, Heidi, I couldn’t help but think he should’ve sprung for the extra few inches of wool. As Heidi glowed, her eyes welling with young, joyful tears and the late afternoon sun glistening from her blush-tinted cheeks, Greg—ordinarily drowning a room in his baritone voice—mumbled through his vows. His bashful promises culminated in the standard embrace. On-looking family and friends cheered—chalking his dearth of enthusiasm up to love-induced nerves—and the party began.

After dinner and speeches, I loitered by the least busy of the bars, putting down double scotch and sodas while others danced. Noiseless photography drones hovered in the air and captured the celebration in resolution that made the human eye look like a flip phone camera. They were standard at those sorts of events, but still creeped the hell out of me. Much friendlier were the sleek cylindrical bots that glided from guest to guest, offering crab cakes and bacon-wrapped shrimp in a gentle British voice.

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