#9
The fog drifted past my small window
Obscuring the dirty-orange bricks of the Beamon Building next door.
It had been two weeks since my last job.
My office fridge held only half a hamburger
And its solidified grease.
When the phone rang
My startled fingers dropped an unfiltered cigarette.
It quickly charred the desk blotter
Already covered with notes and numbers.
A husky voice at the other end whispered,
“Are you alone?”
“Who is this?” I countered.
“You will ask no questions. Simply meet me
At midnight at Anderson’s Garage.”
Again, the husky breathing.
I couldn’t suppress a feeling of arousal
As the line went dead.
The minutes ticked by.
My mind amused itself by creating
A body that might match the voice.
At 11:45 the streets outside were silent
As I slipped behind the wheel of my aging Ford.
Approaching the rendezvous point
I saw the sleek red Jaguar parked
Within a pool of yellow street light.
While I watched from a distance,
A tall, swarthy man
Unfolded himself from the sports car.
The light was scarcely enough
For me to check my lipstick in the rearview mirror
Before tossing my black curls over my shoulder
And stepping out to meet him.
Carol McMillan
April 9, 2013
