Cat In An Aqua Storm

The world seemed vaguely askew. She took a cautious step forward, away from the wall, clammy despite the Las Vegas heat. The whole world jumped. She looked down, dizzy, and saw the contents of her tote bag scattered at her feet. Inching her back down the wall, her left hand touching it for balance, she finally crouched on the balls of her feet and began sweeping her things back into the bag one by one.

The men still shouted. Now one wanted the other to move his car out of the way. “Over my dead body!” the other vowed.

Their belligerent voices kept her anchored in reality. She leaned past her fallen personal effects and spit out the sour, tangy saltwater in her mouth.

A red blob blossomed on the gray pavement. Sidewalk spit revolted her, something only crude men did, but this was her own, an oddly disassociated lovely red phenomenon, like a blooming rose.

Her fingernails scraped the sandpaper-textured concrete as she shuffled papers, pencils, makeup bag, card case, keys back into her bag. No. Not keys. Would need keys. Her right hand clasped them, an aching gesture shooting up to her shoulder.

She was about to rise when she saw something odd lying in front of her. About three inches long, tapered. And purple. Oh. Her heel. One of her heels had broken off.

Anger flared in Temple’s anesthetized brain. Her favorite Liz Claibornes!

She scooped up the heel in the same hand that clutched the keys, and—again using the wall as a support—pushed herself slowly upright. Her lips, mouth and jaw were burning now. She knew she was hurt. What to do? The other men—even as she listened she realized that they were gone.

Her car. Must get to her car and lock the doors. But first she must unlock them. Keys in hand, she edged around the pillar, not sure what she would do if two tall men were waiting.

No one there. Only the noncommittal humps of parked cars. Her own wasn’t far. She had almost reached it. A miss is as good as a mile, an inner voice mocked. Left. Facing the outside of the ramp. Aqua.

She limped along, carrying the tote bag in her left hand, because it freed the right hand to use the keys, because the arm hurt too much to carry more than a ring of keys and a broken heel. She had to brace herself on the trunks of cars she passed, hearing her car keys chime on metal, wincing and hoping she wasn’t scratching the paint. Couldn’t look. Couldn’t stop. Need help. Find help. Find car!

The Storm’s cheerful aqua hit her hot, blurred vision like a splash of cooling water. She staggered along the driver’s side and slung the tote bag onto the hood while she fumbled with the keys. The heel kept getting in the way, but she had to hang on to it. For a moment she couldn’t remember whether the key turned left or right, couldn’t remember ever knowing that.

And then instinct resurfaced. She wrenched it right—a sharp hot needle of pain jabbed all the way up to her collarbone. The door opened to her left hand. She was easing herself in when she remembered the tote bag, straightened and retrieved it. She paused for a minute, panting, before the open door. She needed to get in, to lock it. But how to get the heavy tote bag past her first, into the passenger seat?

Sighing, Temple swung it with her left arm, letting its weight pull her arm back and then tug her arm inward. She loosened her grip. The tote plopped upright in the passenger seat like a bag of groceries.

Temple eased herself into the car seat, let her right foot reach in and her knees bend—that felt all right—let her torso bend—that didn’t—and her head dip forward... oh. She was seated, gripping the steering wheel, watching its spoked circle whirl around and around in her gaze.

Her left leg still trailed out the open car door. She pulled in the foot with the heelless shoe. At least she didn’t have to drive with it. Her left arm pulled the door shut. Such a nice sound. Solid and safe. Her forefinger hit the door locks, and they snapped to attention.

Safe in the car, alone in the car, Temple felt pain pool into one tidal wave of agony and almost swallow her.

Home. She had to get home. Safe at home. Keys in ignition. Yes. Taken-for-granted motions were returning. Her teeth suddenly started chattering, scaring her more than the pain, than the mental haze that still surrounded her. Shock. Shouldn’t drive. Had to. They might come back.

The Storm’s valiant little engine purred obediently at the right movements with the key. She would have to shift with her right arm. Ow. Reverse. Back out. The pallid red reflections of her own taillights startled her into braking sharply for an instant. Then the car was backed up. She gritted her teeth and pushed the automatic gear into Drive. The Storm was idling along to the exit ramp, ready to circle down. No one coming. She entered the concrete corkscrew. Dizzy, oh God! She hit the brakes, then reconsidered. Had to circle out. Had to. Only way.