From Word To Word

She appeared in the light of a streetlamp across the darkened parking lot and approached him obliquely, as if slipping into the wake of a ship, closing the distance between them until he could see her in the periphery of his vision, matching his pace a few steps behind him and to his left. She looked unremarkable, though underdressed for the cold of a spring night, wearing only a light blouse and a pair of dirty jeans against a temperature that made fog of her breath and kept her hands buried in her pockets, arms pressed to her sides. In her eyes and mouth their was a kind of prettiness, but her cheeks and chin were sagging and heavy, as were the breasts and belly that dominated her figure unpleasantly, disproportionate with her narrow hips, her thin legs and arms.

She began speaking to him suddenly, without introduction, looking fixedly ahead of her, avoiding his eyes, even when he turned his head to the sound of her voice. Her words were quick, delivered in short, emotionless bursts. “My boyfriend took off,” she said, “with all my stuff. I need some money, to get back east, where I’m from, ’cause I just have what I’m wearing, and I don’t really need to eat or anything, but I can’t get home.” She paused, glanced briefly at him, gaging his response, then continued in the same tone, “Is there any way I could make forty bucks with you tonight?”

Both she and he had continued walking, as if stopping would be to admit the embarrassment of their exchange. “I have no money,” he replied at last, but her footsteps continued to match his expectantly. “I have a car,” he said then, after a moment. “I could give you a ride somewhere, but I really don’t have any money.” Even still she followed, and they were approaching his car very quickly.

He stopped, turning to face her, his eye catching hers for a moment. “I don’t need a ride,” she said, then ducked her head. “I need money, just forty bucks. I’ll do whatever.”

He was held there by her somehow, though he could find in himself no desire to buy from her what she offered, would not have followed the desire even if he had found it, but there seemed to be no response that would release him from her. She raised her eyes to him again, and he instinctively looked away. “Sorry, I have no money,” he said a third time, and he turned to his car, opened the door, and bent to enter it.

She suddenly spoke again, her voice no longer empty but touching lightly a kind of sadness. “I hope you don’t think I’m a whore. I’m not. I just need to get home, you know?” He closed the door and drove past her through the streetlamps and the darkness.