Intersection

She wishes she had a collar to flip up against the chill. Not a winter chill or even early spring. This was the chill of waiting for a reluctant ride, another one, since the first had been snapped up, or rather sat in, by a ridiculous mini-skirted rear. A deserted street, or almost. It should be, she thinks, and there should be steam curling from the storm drains and the shadow of a trenchcoat with only eyes peaking above its topmost fold, watching her every move. No one but a woman across the road, kneeling and swaying, as if in deep prayer or an even deeper drunk funk. Carob, our self-willing hardboiled star, looks back towards the viaduct to the south. Come to me. Come to me. Appear! Sedans and dark minivans. Nothing useful.

A cough. A cough! Carob settles her eyes on the curb, watching a bottlecap and a concrete crack. Circle and line. Ball and chain. Yoyo and string. I won't turn around, she thinks. This is my big moment. If he grabs me (of course he's a he) then I'll be calm and dart my eyes at the camera, all Detriech, and turn my face up as slowly as an awakening and then we'll recognize each other. Frank, I'll gasp. No--I'll rasp, Frank! It's damn good to see you. Where have you been, my darling? Purring, I'll repeat it, my darling, where have you been?

Instead, it happens all at once. The taxi flickers close and she's in and gone. In the rear mirror is a redhead in green, the focal point of an otherwise black and white comic. Given the sum of carrots she regularly demolishes, Carob wonders how she missed him.