bowl. It was empty now except for two or three dozen unpopped kernels and a scattering of puffy white crumbs—all that had remained by the time they finished watching the video of GI Jane.
In the kitchen, Sherry set the bowl on the counter. She ran a fingertip across its slick, grainy bottom. Her finger came out coated with congealed butter and salt. She licked it clean, licked her lips, then stepped to the sink and filled her glass at the faucet.
The tap water was neither sweet nor cold.
She stepped over to the refrigerator, opened its freezer compartment and took out a handful of ice cubes. She dumped them into her glass and shut the freezer.
Stirring the cubes around with her forefinger, she stepped out of the kitchen.
How long has he been gone? she wondered.
Probably two minutes.
Just about time enough to get downstairs to the building’s parking lot.
This is going to be a long wait.
She took her finger out of the water and slipped it into her mouth. It felt very cold. After a few seconds of sucking, however, it was warm again.
She took a long drink.
Lowering the glass, she sighed.
Now what? she wondered.
She stepped around to the front of the couch, sat down, took another drink, then leaned forward and eased her glass down on the coffee table. She picked up the clicker and turned the TV on.
Flipping from channel to channel, she found that most of the local stations had dropped their regular programming to cover the brush fires.
They oughta cover them, she thought; they started them.
She doubted that any of the local newscasters had actually applied matches or lighters to the dry hillsides, but she was certain they’d put the idea into the heads of the firebugs. Every year, they never failed to announce when conditions were ripe for blazing disasters. And the fires would start immediately, as if every pyromaniac in southern California had been biding his time in front of the TV, patiently awaiting the official word to begin.
Ready. Set. Gentlemen, start your fires!
Now the local news shows had what they wanted—what they’d begged for.
Every station seemed to have a helicopter circling over bright rows of flame. And crews on the ground standing dangerously close to assorted infernos, interviewing fire-fighters or people who’d just lost their homes or anyone else who might have a story to tell. And anchor teams safe in the studio, eagerly expounding on every aspect of the “worst firestorm ever to hit the southland.”
She doubted that.
She had learned, long ago, that LA newscasters were masters of hyperbole.
The fires were certainly bad this year. It was inevitable, after all the rain from last season’s El Niño storms. Listening to these people, though, you’d think the Apocalypse had arrived.
“Get some perspective,” she muttered to the television.
A map filled the screen. She checked the locations of the fires, found them in Malibu, Pasadena, up near Newhall, and several in Orange County. None within ten miles of Duane’s building or her own. Nor were there fires anywhere near her parents’ home.
The clock on the VCR showed 10:18.
Sherry was glad to see that so much time had passed.
He’s probably in the store by now.
Should be back in five minutes or so.
Though watching television would help the time pass quickly, she didn’t want Duane to walk in and find her sitting naked on the couch, gaping at the boob tube.
How about a little atmosphere? she thought.
She turned off the television, then wandered through the rooms, switching off every light. Duane kept a candle in the bathroom. She lit it, then carried it into the bedroom and placed it on the nightstand.
In the living room again, she picked up her glass and took a drink of the ice-cold water.
10:22
Any minute now.
She returned to the bedroom. It looked wonderfully romantic in the glow of the candle—golden light fluttering, shadows dancing, the curtains bellowing like wispy windblown nightgowns.
As she sipped more water, she noticed her reflection in the mirror above Duane’s dresser.
She turned and looked at it.
A corner of her mouth tilted upward.
Not bad for an old broad.
The “old broad,” approaching her twenty-fifth birthday, knew that she appeared more like nineteen.
Nineteen, and a guy.
With her slender build and very short hair, she was often mistaken for a boy—especially when seen from a distance.
Watching herself in the mirror, Sherry figured nobody would likely mistake her for a boy at the moment. The gold hoop earrings wouldn’t count for much—LA was full of guys wearing earrings. But she clearly had breasts. The mounds