Sarah Andrews - In Cold Pursuit

Matt said, “Chasing skirt’s bound to be one big exercise in frustration in a place where the ratio of bucks to does is seven to three.”

Joe said, “What are you, gay?”

“It’s the thrill of the hunt. Oh, Wilbur, there’s your honey now,” said Steve, eyeing a young computer tech who was just emerging from the waffle line. “What’s her name?”

“Burnie.”

“Short for Burnadette?”

Wilbur shook his head. “Nope, short for burns my ass. She just storms through the dining room like she’s some grade school principal in pursuit of a kid accused of shitting in someone’s lunchbox.”

“Nice tits,” said Joe.

Wilbur shot him a look.

“I don’t mean yours,” said Joe. “Hers! You gotta admit, she’s got tits made in heaven, and when she rolls her ass like that—”

“Stop it!” said Wilbur. “She ain’t giving me any, so I can’t stand to watch, so I ain’t, and I sure’s hell wish you’d quit giving me the blow by blow.”

“What is it you guys named her?” Dave asked. “You have such a way with language.”

“We call her Hell No,” said Steve. “Guess why.”

Wilbur said, “‘Cause that’s her answer. The tight-assed—”

Dave said, “I gotta wonder if you boys might do better if you went it alone, rather than hunting as a pack.”

“Dang!” said Wilbur. “Here comes Wiggles!”

Joe swung his face around to catch every last ripple of movement. “My, my, my. I do like what she’s done with all those chocolate bars she’s been eating.”

Steve snickered appreciatively. “Cadbury’s ought to hire her. She’d be an inspiration to all young women who think anorexia is a beauty plan.”

Steve asked, “What’s the deal with the load from Cheech?”

“Only one female name on the flight manifest,” said Wilbur. “At least, I think Valena is a woman’s name.”

“What’s her other name?”

“I forget.”

“Walker,” said Joe. “Valena Walker.”

Matt said, “Yankee last name, first name ending in A, sounds like a babe to me. But they’re mostly bringing in beakers these days, so she could be one of those brainy ones with less hair than you have.”

Joe put a hand on his bald spot in mock affrontery. “I beg your pardon.”

Something near the food lines caught Matt’s attention. He went on point and let out a series of small beep noises, like a machine that was honing in on a target.

Wilbur said, “You got your forklift stuck in reverse, Matt?”

“There is a new one!” said Matt jubilantly. “Check her out! And if that’s what a beaker looks like, sign me up.”

“Where?” said Steve.

Joe said, “One o’clock high. Blue jeans, white fleece pullover, and oh, my my.”

All eyes swung toward the approaching woman.

“Exotic,” said Steve. “Gorgeous. Strong. And built!”

“What do you think?” asked Wilbur. “She black? Latino? What?”

“I see some Asian in there, too,” said Joe.

“And tell me about those cheekbones!” said Steve. “Native American? Hawaiian?”

“Carries herself like a dancer,” said Dave, sneaking another look.

Matt swung his attention to his roommate. “I didn’t know you were a poet,” he said.

“I mean she moves real purty.”

“I’ll show her how to move,” said Wilbur.

The woman stopped about fifteen feet away and turned, scanning the crowd. Dave watched her closely out of the corners of his eyes. There was indeed something marvelous about her, but also something sad, almost haunted. The tension in her shoulders made her look uncertain of herself, almost scared.

Wilbur began to utter inchoate gurgling sounds.

Right then, Dave wished that he could shoot Wilbur out of the universe like a watermelon seed. This woman needed comfort, not drooling. He began to rise from his chair. He didn’t have a plan, but perhaps he would speak to her, ask if he might be of assistance. But no, she had made her choice and was moving quickly toward a table up at the far end of the room by the windows, where the computer geeks tended to sit. He lowered himself back into his seat.

“Sitting with the dweebs,” said Steve. “Must be a new techie. Or yeah, a beaker, even.”

“You think?” said Joe.

Wilbur let out a theatrical sigh. “Yeah, hang it up, men, she won’t have no time for the likes of us.”

Dave mapped the gentle curves of her spine as she settled into a chair. When he returned his attention to his own table, Matt was staring at him, observing him frankly. “What?” said Dave, so that only Matt could hear him.

Matt raised an eyebrow.

Dave bowed his head and lifted his fork to his mouth, pretending that he noticed or cared what was on it.

“MIND IF I SIT DOWN?” VALENA ASKED THE PEOPLE AT THE table by the window.

“Make yourself at home,” said a man wearing a fleece hat that featured a band of fake fur that stood out like a fright wig. The other denizens of the table—two women and another man—continued their conversation.

Valena settled into a chair and stuck a fork into her eggs.

“No Belgian waffle?” the man with the hat asked, even before she got the first bite to her lips.

“Couldn’t wait.” She stuffed the forkful into her mouth and chewed. Relief surged through her body.

“I’m Peter,” he said.

“Valena.”

“Well, if you don’t go back for a waffle, don’t miss Wednesdays. That’s cookie day around here, and you don’t have to wait in line. Where are you from?”

“Reno.”

“Cool. What do you do here?”

“I’m here to study glaciers. How about you?”

“I’m an energy conservation specialist.”

“I see. Where are you from?” she inquired, completing the symmetry of the conversation.

“My storage locker is in Idaho.”

Valena blinked. This was the first time she had ever met anyone who didn’t think of himself as being from somewhere.

The man who was sitting to her right said, to no one in particular, “Well, I’m going to go get in line and buy some hooch,” and got up and left. He was replaced by a tiny woman with high cheekbones on a face so heavily tanned that it evoked the original meaning of the adjective. She put one foot on the chair and squatted on it, letting the other leg dangle. “Who are you?” she demanded, leaning a little closer than Valena quite found comfortable. “You’re new. I’m horny as hell.”

Valena could smell alcohol on her breath. “Does everybody here drink on Sundays?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“Oh, hell no. Usually I spend the day skiing. But today I’m real horny. You’re just a kid, so don’t worry. Yeah. You’re just a kid. Are you any fun? Huh?”

“Don’t mind her,” said Peter. “It’s just her way of saying hello. Love me, love my hormones. Take it easy on her, Cupcake, she just got here.”

“I like in-your-face,” Cupcake said. “It keeps things fresh.”

Peter said, “Fresh is what you are, love.”

Cupcake now leaned even closer to Valena and examined her face with frank interest. “You’re a little bit of everything, ain’t ya?”

“What do you do here?” Valena said evenly, trying to back her off.

“I drive heavy equipment. Come for a ride?”

Valena said, “This is an interesting town. Just like college, only more so.”

Cupcake said, “Yeah. The food sucks, you get no privacy, but instead of ‘What’s your sign and what’s your major?’ everybody asks, ‘Where are you from, and what do you do here?’ Gets real boring, huh?”

“Oh, I’m finding the food quite tasty,” Valena said.

The woman eyed her appreciatively. “You’re good.”