This is a short story from my collection Swing Shorts: Stories & Wonders

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A sign warned: Gas, Food, Lodging this exit—or nothing for sixty-nine miles. I didn’t think my mother’s 54 Pontiac had it in her to go that far. I pulled off the highway, cranking the wheel and followed the sign to a sleepy hamlet nestled in a small valley. The shadow of a lone mesa smothered the town in premature night.

Neon rippled in motion across the wings of an eagle who wore American Indian headdress. The words Thunderbird Motor Court blazed crimson. An arrow in complementary turquoise pointed to the hotel below.

I pulled under the pueblo-style portico. Round wooden corbels protruded on each side. Was this the place? She told me to just drive through her country. I’d know the place when I found it. If this wasn’t the place, it would be a fine place to rest while I continued my search, and I sure could use a drink.

I paid for my room and drove around the back to tuck Mom’s car into a smaller twin portico. Connected in a repeated pattern of carports and rooms, forming a giant u-shape, the lodgings were more like cottages with back and front doors. The back was accessible from the car cozy. The front opened onto a pretty courtyard, landscaped in desert flora with Mesquite trees bestowing shade on several wooden benches. Old-style gas lamps provided soft illumination.

I took a quick shower and unpacked one of the three dresses I’d kept of mom’s. They weren’t actually hers, but my grandmother’s. Mom had kept them, hoping one day to fit into them. She’d been a big woman all her life. Though at the end—and too late—she became the tiny doll she aspired to be. They would’ve fit her at that point, and I would’ve buried her in one of them, but she’d insisted on cremation. She wanted her ashes strewn across New Mexico land. I would know it when I saw it. I hoped she was right. I’d been driving for days and didn’t know anything but miles of tear-soaked lonely.

My grandmother’s dress was a late 30s or early 40s black rayon a-line with ruching across the bodice. At the neck, a row of three turquoise buttons matched a belt of turquoise and brass arrow studs that gave it a slightly southwestern look. I thought the getup was appropriate for the journey. With the dress on, it seemed incongruous to blow-dry my hair straight. I pulled it back with combs in a makeshift 40’s style and scrunched the ends with gel, hoping it would dry into curls. My grandmother’s ankle-strap shoes completed the outfit, and I was ready for whatever the lounge had to offer.

CANTINA. The sign read above the entrance. Carved swinging doors with colorful, faded stain swung open to reveal a beautiful oval bar. Low tables with hand-carved chairs sat empty. Punched tin votives complemented the soft glow from matching wall sconces and lanterns above the bar. I traipsed up to the counter and plunked down my purse, taking a seat on an upholstered stool. The bartender moseyed over. Even in the low light, his skin was the rusty color of late-autumn leaves.

“Good evening pretty lady. What can I get you?” Deep wrinkles piled atop one another.

I’d spent so many days in the hospital and more later, clearing everything out of her house, I couldn’t remember the last time a man had complimented me. “What’s your specialty?” I smiled and leaned across the bar.

“Most tourists ask for Mojitos or Margaritas, but those are loaded with sugar. You look like a woman that can handle a real drink.” He pursed his lips. “How about a martini? Vodka or gin? Olive or twist?”

“Vodka martini, please. Dirty’ll do it.” I reached for my purse. I liked that he thought I looked like a woman who didn’t need it sugarcoated.

“No rush.” He held up his hands. I set my purse back down. “Let me start a tab for you.” He began pouring vodka into a shaker.

Big band music oozed through the walls. At first, I thought I was hearing things but then realized it was coming from behind the bar, behind the wall with the southwestern mural.

“What’s going on back there?” I tilted my head toward the sound, pulled the bowl of bar mix in front of me, and proceeded to pick out the almonds.

“Dance lessons. Every Monday. My slow night.” He swept his arm toward the empty bar. “They should be wrapping up, though. Then we’ll have a rush. It’s good for me, good for them.”

I nodded and popped a spicy nut into my mouth. He poured my martini with flourish, drizzling olive juice and dropping a quintet of olives into the wide-mouth glass. Dinner and drinks. I smiled. “Thanks. It looks beautiful.”

He poured the leftover into a rock glass and raised it to me. “Cheers. Mujer triste. You need anything, my name’s Machakw, but everybody calls me Mac.”

I looked at him questioningly as we both took a sip. The clear, bold flavor sent a chill down my throat. When was the last time I had a good drink? Longer than I could remember. The drink tasted slightly spicy with hints of textured grains. “Mmmm. This is good. Machakw? Native American? Does it mean anything?”

He chuckled. “You don’t want to know.”

“Sure, I do.” I took another sip. “What kind of Vodka is this. It’s heavenly.”

“Machakw means horny toad.” He smirked. “And for you my lovely, I poured Wheatley. An award-winning American Vodka. I try to support our own.” He winked and shot the rest of his drink.

“What did you call me a moment ago? Moo-hair, tris-stay?”

He smiled to one side. “Sad woman. I sense you come from a deep place of sadness.”

I glanced around, a little uncomfortable. I was bright, smiling, clean, if not rested. I jutted out my chin. “What makes you say that?”

“I’ve been a bartender three times your life over, and I know sorrow when it walks into my bar.” He began mixing another drink. I looked down and was surprised to find I’d only a sip left. I fingered the olives and savored them one by one.

Before I could respond, he’d set another martini in front of me. The double doors opened. Cheerful yellow light spilled into the dark grotto. A wave of warm, moist air surged through the bar like a monsoon, carrying voices and music on its crest. For a second, I was disoriented and surprised. Rushing bodies swarmed the bar, their faces pink and glowing—the antithesis my life had been for the last four months. I wanted a piece of their life. The small crowd of five or six gathered around the bar. Backlit by the room behind them, their features blurred in silhouette. Dancers bobbed behind them in the bright room.

Suddenly I felt heat radiating at my side. “Is anyone sitting here?” A voice rang out.

I turned to the man standing close beside me. He held his ginger-bronze face at an angle. His high cheekbones cut sharp by the play of light from the dance room and the dark bar. His onyx eyes flickered with mischief. A shiver ran up my spine and a flush crossed my body. I was attracted at once. I sat up straighter. My skin tingled. I became aware of my underwire bra, the viscosity of rayon resting on my thighs, and the leather straps across my ankles. I took a deep breath and another sip of my drink.

I waited too long to talk. “Uh. What? Seat? No. This seat is open.” I refrained from patting the bar stool next to me. He smelled of musk, soap, and expensive cologne. I took a big whiff.

“Thank you. I need a break.” He ran his hand through his hair. It fell back across his forehead and brushed the edge of his cheek.

“From what?” I shifted my purse to the other side of me. Between mixing drinks and popping beer tops, Mac set a Negro Modelo in front of the handsome man. I thought Mac might have winked, but I wasn’t sure. I’d watch my step. I was too vulnerable right now.

“Teaching.” He took a big gulp, downing half the bottle. His forearm flexed with subtle muscle tone, a tattoo poked out beneath his tight ringer-tee.

God help me, I wanted to lick his tattoo. I took a sip of my drink and fished another nut out of the bowl.

“Better watch Mac’s martinis. They’ll sneak up on you.”

“Thanks.” I speared an olive and slowly pulled the pick between my teeth. I couldn’t help flirting. “So, what kind of dance do you teach?”

“Swing. Lindy. Balboa. Shag. Tonight was basic swing-outs and send-outs.”

He was speaking Greek. I smiled and tilted my head, locking my eyes with his. “I don’t know anything about that. I’m Winnie, by the way. What’s your name?” I asked boldly. It must have been the alcohol talking, or his smoky eyes.

“Winnie. That’s an old-fashioned name. Short for Winifred?”

I almost spit out my drink. God. Did I look like a Winifred? Maybe this 40s dress was a bad idea. I laughed or scoffed or blustered. Some odd sound came out of my mouth. “Short for Winona.”

“Ah yes, Dakota, first born daughter.” He drank the rest of his beer and nodded at Mac.

“Hi, Dakota. Nice to meetcha.” I stuck out my hand.

The dancer threw back his head and laughed. I pulled my hand to my lap. “No, your name. It’s a Native American Dakota name. Means first born. My name’s Jack. Give me that hand back, and I’ll take it.”

I offered it again. Instead of shaking it, he took it between both his hands, stroked it, and brought it up to his warm cheek for a moment. He nodded solemnly and then kissed the bent knuckles of my hand. I almost fell off my seat. His lips pressed into the valleys between the ridges. I’d never felt anything like it. His kiss was undeniably sensual, yet non-threatening, yet absolutely intoxicating. I shivered and closed my eyes for a moment. It might’ve been a little of Mac’s martini, but not much of it.

“Jack. Well now.” I titled my head and looked into his dark face. “That’s quite normal isn’t it?”

“What is normal to the spider is chaos for the fly.”

“What?” I played with my earring, twirling the small stud in my ear.

“Never mind. Yes, quite normal, or all-American, anyway. Just how I wanted it when I went to college. Do you wanna dance?”

Where did that come from? Weren’t we just talking about names? “Thanks, but I don’t know how.”

“Let me teach you.” He stood, stretched out his hand, and bowed slightly.

I wanted to go with him. I wanted to feel my hand in his again, but I wasn’t about to make a fool of myself, no matter how good-looking he was—or maybe because of it. “Thank you, but I’ve been driving all day. I think I’ll just have another drink, maybe a bite to eat, and call it a night.”

He studied my face and nodded. “I understand. Another time.”

Mac slid a beer across the bar. It glided in a perfect diagonal. Jack caught it just before it sailed off the end of the bar. He kept walking and didn’t look back. That was good. That was fine. I was on a mission. I’d know the place when I saw it, mom said. Why did Jack suddenly feel like a place? I wanted him to come back. I wanted him to teach me to dance. I wanted him to lay his dark amber hands on me. Just when I thought I’d exhausted my tears, one escaped and slipped down my cheek.

Too early. Maybe it was too early to be around people. I dabbed the corner of my eyes with my cocktail napkin and finished the last of my martini.

Suddenly Mac was in front of me. “Another, belleza triste?”

“Thank you, but how about food. Is the kitchen still open? And some water, please, ice water.”

“Water is easy. Here you go.” He shook his head. “Food might be a little more difficult. The kitchen is usually open, but Brenda had an emergency and had to close early.”

“Oh, okay. Is there somewhere else in town you could recommend?”

“How about a cold sandwich and some slaw or chips? I could muster up something like that.”

“That would be wonderful, Mac. I’m grateful. Thank you.” I held the cool glass of water to my temple. Mac disappeared behind a curtain. Soft jazz sounds sifted through the double doors. They opened, again. My heart skipped a beat for second, but then resumed its jog. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Jack. What was the matter with me? All he did was kiss my hand.

“Did you see where Mac went? I need another.” The unknown dancer shook his empty beer bottle as if I could do something.

“Yeah, he just ran to the kitchen. He’ll be right back.” I took a long sip of water and crunched the ice, swirling it around to help cool me down. When I’d arrived, I’d felt calm and together. I thought I was getting over her death, but now I was jumbled, hot, and confused. Maybe I was just hungry.

“We’ve got a dance going on in there. You look dressed for it. You should join us.” He smiled kindly and gestured with his thumb.

“It’s my grandmother’s.” I blurted.

He looked confused.

“The dress. I don’t know anything about the 40s besides owning a few dresses.”

He nodded. “Well, you sure look the part. Jack’s a great teacher. Come try. What’ve you got lose?” He walked over to where I sat, but didn’t stand as close as Jack had. “Come on.”

I reached for my purse and began to slide off the stool. Why not? I’d never see these people again. I could afford to make an ass out of myself. Jack was obviously not that interested in me.

“Here you go.” Mac called. I turned back. He set down a sandwich with a generous helping of what looked like homemade slaw. My stomach growled. “Thanks, Mac.” I sat back down. “And thanks—what was your name?”

“Henry.”

“Thanks Henry. I’m Winnie. Maybe later?” I took a bite of the sandwich. It turned out to be turkey with avocado. I smiled. “You’re full of surprises aren’t you, Mac?”

Mac winked at me and opened another beer for Henry. “Here you go.”

“Thanks, Mac.” He raised his bottle to Mac then tipped an imaginary hat to me. “Nice to almost dance with you, Winnie.”

“Likewise,” I replied, but he was already sliding back between the doors.

While I ate my sandwich, the door opened several more times with patrons needing refills on drinks, but—much to my irritation—none of them were Jack. I finished my meal and asked Mac for the check, paid, and left a generous tip.

Walking through the lobby the desk clerk called out, “Nice dress. You really look the part. How was dancing tonight?”

“I’m, um. No, I just came in for a drink. Mac was great. Please tell your manager.”

The clerk snickered. “Mac is the manager and owner, but I’ll tell him.” She looked at me quizzically. “It’s tough to be a new student. Don’t give up on it.”

She had me confused. I didn’t take any dance lessons. I didn’t want to dance. Or did I? “Maybe I will try again.” I turned on my heels and marched back through the bar.

“Back so soon?” Mac winked and pushed another martini to the edge of the bar.

“How did you—”

“Never mind. Get in there before it’s too late. This one’s on me.”

It seemed an odd thing to say, but I took his advice.

Everyone was extremely friendly and welcomed me into their dance circle. Jack generously pulled me aside and taught me enough Lindy—the swing-out, send-out, and Charleston—to dance an entire song. The turns were the same as Two-Step, and I knew how to do that. By the time the crowd had thinned to seven of us, I’d danced with every man in the room and some women, too. I was a convert. I loved swing. I loved the way my hips felt solid and connected to the earth as if a big loop of energy made its way through my body to my partner’s and back to the earth again. I’d never felt that way the few times I’d danced Two-Step.

I sweated and danced out Mac’s martinis, and although I was relaxed, I was alert and sober. Jack cued a few more songs and then asked me to dance, again. I had to admit, I liked dancing with him best. I loved to watch the look of joy on his face and feel his muscles contract and expand beneath my fingers and alongside my thighs—when I was lucky enough to press against him.

“Jack,” Mac beckoned as Jack dipped me in a low repose at the end of the song. Mac tossed a ring of keys. Jack caught them with ease, never making me feel afraid of falling. “Go ahead and keep dancing, but you’re in charge of locking up. You know what to do.”

“Thanks, Mac.” Jack righted my body, waved, and set the keys on the table by his phone. The next song had already started up, Igloo by Betty Hutton.

“We’re heading out, too. Thanks for another great night, Jack.” The trio of dancers gave hugs all around which left only four of us—one other couple. Not that Jack and I were a couple, but I wouldn’t mind being a couple for one night. I think he thought the same. I was pretty sure I was being played by an excellent player, but I didn’t care.

Anita O’ Day crooned I’m Beginning to See the Light, a slower song, but still fast enough to Lindy. Jack led combinations of moves I’d just learned, and I followed best I could. Halfway into the song, the other couple called it quits, waved, and scampered out, not wanting to disturb our jive. Jive, a new word to add to my vocabulary. And just like that, Jack and I were alone, dancing in the empty hall with Anita singing her heart out. Her voice rasped grounded and bluesy, yet at the same time ethereal.

“You hanging in there? How about one more?” Jack squeezed me close. The spicy scent of his cologne mixed with the manly smell of clean sweat. I felt like I could dance all night with him.

“Sure.”

He danced us over to his phone and thumbed through a list of songs. Louis Armstrong’s trumpet bleated beautiful notes, the opening bars of Le Vie en Rose. I looked at Jack. “I don’t know how to Waltz.”

“You don’t need to. We’ll blues dance.”

“I don’t know how to do that either.”

“Sure you do, everybody knows how to slow dance. Follow me.”

Now I was sure I was being played. I knew where this was going—I welcomed it, needed it—but I was going to take my time getting there and relish the delicious path. I didn’t think I’d ever been wooed quite like this before. My college one-night stands were blurry, frenzy-filled, lovemaking romps.

He pulled me close, his breath hot in my hair. His broad chest smashed into mine. I felt the rise and fall of his chest, his heart beating. He thrust his leg between mine. I leaned into him as he spun me around in a double-time spin, slowing into a sweeping dip. He hit my spot with perfect pressure and movement. I responded with a slow grind. He kept us moving across the dance floor, slow spin, micro grind, release into a turn and back again. Over and over again until I was dizzy with lust. Somewhere between the spins, grinds, and turns, his hands gently cupped my face. His thumbs stroked softly, guiding my mouth to his. He kissed perfectly, like a dream, like a movie kiss.

He continued swaying and turning as we kissed, first slowly, then faster. His lips slid to my neck. My back found the wall. He pressed me into it. I was on fire. I wanted to tear off his t-shirt. He ran his hand under my dress, up my thigh.

“Not here,” I squeaked.

He nodded. “I have to lock up.”

I let go of his hand.

“No, come with me.” He took my hand. “I don’t want to let you go.”

I followed him through the bar. He locked the Cantina door. We stopped and pressed into each other again, snatching deep kisses. He led me behind the bar and through the kitchen, out a back door. The world was still warm, but scented with impending rain—the air charged with electricity.

We held hands, and I led him down the ally to my cottage. We didn’t make it into the room. He leaned me against the curve of the Pontiac. His body fit perfectly into mine. I couldn’t get enough. I couldn’t wait. I tore at his belt and unzipped his pants.

“You’re a fire woman,” he whispered in my ear and hiked up my dress.

I wriggled out of my panties and wrapped my legs around him. God, it felt good. Alive. Just what I needed. We worked our bodies against each other. The dichotomous cool of the Pontiac against the heat of his body. It was fast, but good, but not good enough. I wanted more. Somehow, we got our disheveled selves through the door, stumbling and collapsing onto my bed in a heap of giggles. After the giggles subsided, we lay facing one another. He played with my hair. The gesture reminded me of my mother when I was a little girl. She was gone. She would never tuck a stray hair again. She would never dance at my wedding. She would never wear her mother’s dresses. She would never see her grandchildren, yet unborn. We would never laugh together again, or cry over a re-telling of a sad book. She would never hug me again. She would never be there for me to ask about my childhood years or her past. It hit me for the first time that a part of me died with her. I couldn’t stop the tears. It wasn’t a torrent, but a quiet stream ran down my face.

I turned away. “I’m so dumb. I’m sorry. You must think I’m a nut job.”

He pulled me closer. “No.” His lips brushed my forehead. “We have a saying: What is life? It is the flash of a firefly in the night. It is the breath of a buffalo in the wintertime. It is the little shadow which runs across the grass and loses itself in the sunset. 

“Am I that transparent?” I thought back to what Mac had called me: triste mujer.

“You are not that transparent. You are that alive.” He kissed me full on the mouth.

My body crackled with lightning. I rolled him over onto his back, straddled him, and started to pull his shirt over his head.

“Wait. I want to show you something.” He sat up.

“Really? Right now?”

“Yes, right now. Before it’s too late.”

I’d come this far with him, and it was a night for new experiences. But, God, I wanted him again.

“You might want to change out of that dress into something more rugged. Hiking clothes.”

“We’re going for a hike in the middle of the night?”

“It’s closer to morning than you think. Let’s not miss the sunrise.” He looked so earnest with his tussled hair and untucked shirt. I couldn’t say no.

“Help me out of this dress?” I unzipped the side zip and raised my arms over my head. He tugged upwards. It slid off easily.

He ran his hands down the sides of my bare skin and kissed the back of my neck. I leaned into him. He growled a little, deep and low.

I turned around and pressed into him. “You sure you want to go?”

“I’m sure.”

I hurried into new undies, shorts, and a t-shirt, donning Converse without socks.

“I’m all yours.”

We drove my car. He drove my car. I let him drive. He’d come with friends and hadn’t planned on staying. We drove past the outskirts of town into the high desert. The moon occasionally poked through racing clouds, lending an odd strobe effect that echoed the lightning flashes in the distance. In the direction we were driving.

A firefly in a coalmine, the headlights illuminated a few feet into the darkness. The landscape changed from sparse yuccas to mesquite trees and scrub with large boulders strewn like giant marbles. We bounced over the bumpy road until it was too steep for the old car.

“We’ll have to walk from here.” Jack turned off the engine.

“It’s so dark.” I looked out the window.

“I know this trail like I know myself.”

“Whatever you say.” I scooted toward the door.

“Wait for me.” Jack was out of the car and around the other side, opening the door for me. I couldn’t remember the last time that happened either.

I put my hand in his, and he helped me out of the car. He held my hand tight and led me to a path only he could see. Lightning flashed and for a second, I could see the winding path where it disappeared into the side of a huge cliff.

“Wait. I forgot something in the car. I think this is the place.” It was a strange thing to say, but he didn’t question me. He walked me back to the car. I popped the trunk and placed a shoe-size box in the bottom of a canvas bag.

She said I’d know it when I saw it. I couldn’t see it very well. I’d wait for the sunrise, but I had the strangest feeling this was the place.

We walked and talked of nothing and everything. He’d recently graduated with a master’s in history, a minor in sociology. He told me ancient tales he’d grown up with. His parents still lived on the reservation and eschewed as much modernism as they could, though they made exceptions for the internet, electricity, and indoor plumbing.

Mac was a Great Uncle who’d married outside the tribe—a Mexican woman. Jack had learned his Spanish from her. I told him how I’d lived with my mom my entire life. My dad had died when I was five, but now that she was gone, I couldn’t live in the house without her. I’d sold most everything and put the few things I wanted to keep in storage. He didn’t ask what was in the bag. I think he knew. Jack talked animatedly about swing dance. He outlaid the history of swing in America and how it related to other dances immigrants had brought with them.

A crack of thunder followed a quick flash. The storm grew closer. I jumped. He put his arm around me. “Almost there. Did you see the rock steps cut into the side?”

“Sort of.” The lightning flickered again. I paid attention and made a mental map. “That was better.”

“I want you to go first. That way if you slip I can catch you.” He moved behind me, placed his hands on my hips, and nudged me forward. This was the weirdest one-night stands ever. Though, I didn’t want it to end. His hands felt delicious on my hips. I shook with desire. Wild wind whipped my hair and clothes.

I’d come to the top of the stairs and stumbled into a large flat grotto. Jack pulled up beside me. “Turn around.” He held my waist. I snuck my arm around him in a familiar way, as if I’d done it for ages.

The night clung to its domain, but the storm belayed its shroud with a lightshow. Shades of purple, gray, and magenta shimmered as the lightning increased. The thunder boomed so loudly, I thought it would tear through the rock. It didn’t.

I looked up at his face. “You’re an enigma.”

He chuckled. “I don’t think so.”

“I mean here you are this Indian, I mean Native American, raised traditionally, steeped in folklore, yet you have an American name and dance an American dance. You even have short hair.”

“Well, not too short. And Jack’s a nickname, short for Pajackok. Before you ask, yeah, it means something. Thunder.” He ran his hand through is black hair again. “People have some odd ideas about Indians.” He looked away. “It was easy enough to shorten it to Jack.”

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean—”

“Prejudice is a slippery thing.”

“But I’m not…I don’t think…” I clammed up for a moment. “Maybe you’re right. Stereotypes are easy.”

“It’s there, and subtle. We have to fight our more seemingly harmless versions of prejudice.”

I took a deep breath. “I see what you mean.” Or I was beginning too, anyway. A light rain began to fall. “What’s that quote by Mark Twain about prejudice? Something about travel being fatal to it.”

“Um. Let me see. I’m paraphrasing a little, Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, Broad, charitable views of men cannot be acquired by vegetating in one corner of the earth.” He rubbed my arm. “Goose bumps. You cold?”

“A little, but I know the best way to get warm.” I turned to him, sild my arms around his neck, stood on my toes, and kissed him in a pleading way.

“You do something to me. Something new. I don’t know what it is, but this isn’t—”

I kissed him again, curling my breath and tongue with his. I untucked his shirt, took a step back, and pulled off my shirt. I shivered. Goose pimples erupted across my breasts. He rubbed them down with his hand and tongue. We peeled off the rest of our clothing and made a bed of them.

“Sit,” I commanded and straddled him. We found our rhythm, racing with the storm. The sky began to color aubergine. Morning was coming. I bit into his shoulder as we rose and shuddered together. That so rarely happened. It was usually, I go, he goes, or I didn’t go at all.

I wept again, but this time in joy. I suddenly felt a huge weight lifted off me. Jack kissed my tears. We clung to each other until the sky began to turn tangerine. I wasn’t ready to put my clothes back on, but there was something I had to do. I gave Jack a big squeeze. “This is the place.”

He nodded. I pulled my mother’s ashes from the bag and flipped the latch, walking naked to the edge of the ancient abode. The sky undulated in streaks of cerise, daffodil, lilac, and peach. Sage and creosote scents wafted from the damp desert floor below. Mom was right. I’d know it when I saw it, and I’d never seen anything so beautiful as this desert after a storm at sunrise. I sprinkled mom into its beauty. The wind picked up the lighter bits, while the heavier pieces tumbled earthward. A few stray tears found their way to my cheeks.

“How did you know?” I turned to Jack.

“I had a hunch.” He began to dress. I didn’t want him to. The morning sun glowed off his body like polished copper. He was breathtaking.

“I don’t know what to do, now. I don’t know where to go.” I took my clothes as he held them out, and I began to put them on.

“Where do you want to go?”

“Everywhere.”

“Me, too. Want to go together? Travel is fatal to prejudice and bigotry.” He winked and beckoned me to sit beside him. I did.

“We barely know each other.”

“Do we?” He pushed a lock of hair behind my ear. “Let’s discover the world and each other at the same time.”

I’d heard of crazier things, but never had the nerve to do any of them. She said I’d know where to go. This is where I wanted to go. Anywhere and everywhere with Jack. “Okay, let’s see where this leads.”

He put his arm around me. I laid my head on his shoulder and watched the sun light up the world.

By Tam Francis

From: United States

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