Huntress

The keys make a scraping, jingling sound as you take them off the bench.

“Where you going?” she yells from the next room. The fuzzy voices of the TV are abruptly cut off and replaced with a commercial, then cut off again.

You check your back pocket; wallet’s there. “Pizza,” you call back. “Back in a sec.”

A body appears in the doorway between the two rooms; female, quizzical. A little rumpled. “Don’t they deliver?”

“Not after eleven,” you say, yawning and shaking your head. “I’m starving. We have no food.”

She shrugs and goes back to the couch. “Whatever.”

Keys, wallet and phone found, you head for the door. It makes the familiar screech and the screen door slams. It’s humid out, and dark. A thin breeze feebly struggles through the air but makes almost no difference.

Sweat already sticks the shirt to your back.

The car is waiting for you out on the street, probably only a few degrees cooler than the outside air. Fiddling with the keys, you unlock it remotely and then open the door before sliding in. The keys go into the ignition and that’s when you see her.

She’s standing in the middle of the street, lit by the soft orange glow of the streetlights. It shines off long black hair, left out to obscure high cheekbones and wide almond-shaped eyes. Despite the heat, she’s wearing a knee-length coat, also black. The collar is turned up but she is far from hunched over.

Instead, she walks like she owns the night.

You don’t turn the car on; the rumble of the engine would ruin the perfect stillness of the air, mask the muffled tap-scrape of footsteps hitting the bitumen. Instead a click of the keys turns the accessories on, and the CD player skips back with a whir to the first song.

After a minute, though, she looks over, like searching for the source of a noise or a stare. Hastily you press the button to silence the player and wait. She looks away again and continues to walk.

Her steps are slow and measured; like she’s waiting for something. Or, maybe, just savouring the darkness. As she draws closer to the car you notice she’s tall – made even more so by towering black heels.

All at once a dull roar sounds from the end of the street, and headlights flood the street. A long, lean shadow is cast where her figure blocks the light.

She turns; you see her shield her eyes. Then, abruptly, she turns and keeps walking – this time faster, with purpose, and ferocity. The car slows to crawl beside her and the window slides down. You can’t see the driver.

Slowly, you wind the window down a fraction, trying not to be conspicuous. Her words carry clearly in the still air.

“Fuck off.”

The venom surprises you; now the click her shoes make when she walks is clearly audible. You can’t help it; you’re intrigued.

A voice, probably male by the timbre, argues with her as the car inches forward. They exchange words but she keeps walking. By now they’re level with you, so you keep still.

“Just leave,” her voice says, coldly. “If I wanted your apology I would have demanded it.”

More angry words; a growl that sounded suspiciously like, ‘Fine!’ The car’s window rose and the wheels slid and scraped a little on the gravel as the car sped up and drove off.

You expect anger on her features but instead there’s something much more like contempt. She’s now standing exactly in line with your window, looking off down the road.

What was that about, you can’t help but wonder. Still staring, you get a shock when she turns around and looks directly into your face.

And then she waves; a little flutter of the fingers accompanied by a knowing smile.

You’re very aware of the gap in the open window all of a sudden and look away, embarrassed, pretending to fiddle with the stereo. When you next dare to look back, she’s stepping down the road, apparently unruffled, just the way she was before.

Thoroughly mystified, you turn the keys in the ignition and try to forget her.

It’s not as easy as you want it to be.