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Central International Airport Thirty minutes later, she was sitting in a wine-colored Chevrolet Impala, hurtling down a sun-drenched avenue that was lined with palm trees, office buildings and curio shops.
I asked for non-smoking, she thought, rolling down the window. This car smells like they dumped a box of Havana cigars into the fuel tank.
At least, it was comfortable. Leather seats, bright green dials that told you anything from mileage to outside temperature.
And thankfully, no Raul. She felt wonderful. She could go anywhere, do anything. And with fourteen miles of white sand and blue ocean all around, she could hardly go wrong.
Where's the beach?
She was coming to an intersection. The light was red, so she eased her foot onto the brake. The car rolled gently to a stop.
Smooth as silk.
It was nice, just sitting there. Listening to the steady purr of the motor, watching a sea gull as it drifted down and settled on a telephone pole. She thought far back...all the way back to that late summer morning on the beach in Florida. He was holding her hand and they weren't saying anything, just looking at each other...
There was a loud tap on the window. Kanya looked up, startled.
Damn. Another cop.
He was wearing sunglasses, a frayed dark-blue uniform, and a cap that looked like it had been through a nuclear holocaust. His .45 was resting against the window, and he wasn't smiling. She didn't have any reason to believe it wasn't loaded.
Kanya grimaced. Her hands gripped the wheel, heart thumping.  indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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