with metal grillwork to ward off burglars.
Michael had lived in the apartment complex forover a year. During that time, a biker, a family of Mexicans, and a hooker had lived in that tiny apartment. A shade-loving plant that the hooker had tried to grow in the window had died from lack of light. Yet this woman had a tan like a girl on a farm.
“Hey,” said Michael. “I don’t understand. Why …”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “They would have gone to waste anyway.”
Michael hesitated,feeling foolish. As if he had walked in during the second act of a play and was trying to piece together the plot. “I don’t even know your name. I’m Michael.”
“My name’s Karen,” she said. Michael realized as she regarded him with bright blue eyes that she did not fit.
She did not fit the apartment complex; she did not fit the city. She looked like the sort of woman who would bring someone abasket of oranges. And that brought him back to the question that he had put aside earlier: Where had she gotten the oranges anyway? “I’ll see you later,” she said with certainty. And she walked away.
Michael was on his way back to the apartment from his part-time job at the bookstore. He was an hour later than usual—though the city’s buses had continued to run on the city’s emergency supplyof gasoline, they had grown increasingly unreliable in the last six months.
He turned the corner into the apartment court and almost bumped into Karen. The man who lived in the apartment below Michael stood beside her, holding her wrist tightly with a dirty hand. He held a bottle in his free hand and he was saying, “Come on: We can have a drink together. I need company. I’m sick.”
When Michaelstopped beside them, the man bared his teeth in a sort of territorial grin. Michael could not read the expression on Karen’s face. Distaste? Pity?
“Karen. I was hoping I’d run into you,” Michael interrupted the man. A flicker of surprise crossed the woman’s face. Michael continued, “You want to come up to my apartment and have a cup of tea?”
“Hey!” The man swung the bottle at Michael’s headwith a grunt of effort.
Michael had lived in the city since he was young. Street fighting had been a required subject at his high school, though not an officially recognized one. Not a natural fighter, in order to survive, Michael had learned to act rapidly—anticipating his enemy’s moves, analyzing, and countering them.
The man was swaying, already off-balance. Michael caught the arm swingingthe bottle, yanked the man forward, and struck a single, hard punch to the solar plexus. The man’s grip on Karen’s wrist broke and she stumbled back, rubbing her arm. The man fell forward, tripping over his own feet and twisting to one side. The bottle shattered against the asphalt and glass scattered around them. The sweet scent of cheap whiskey rose.
When Michael laid a protective hand on Karen’sarm, the man scowled and started to get up, but collapsed back when he began to cough. The ragged sound began deep in his chest and seemed to tear his throat as it passed. He lay on the pavement amid bits of glass, immobilized by spasms of coughing.
Michael led Karen away, not looking back. “You’re all right, aren’t you?” he asked her.
“I’m fine.” She hesitated, still looking a little surprised,a little puzzled. “Thanks for stopping to help. I don’t expect people to do that in a neighborhood like this.”
Michael hesitated, once again feeling foolish. She acted like they had never met. “I wanted to thank you again for the oranges. I was kind of out of it yesterday and—”
“Oranges?” she interrupted.
“The ones you brought me. Where did you get them anyway? All the stores I’ve been to inthe last week have been out of everything but canned stuff.”
Karen smiled tentatively. “The farmer was going to leave them to rot,” she said. “I guess that must have been it.”
The thought passed through
Michael had lived in the apartment complex forover a year. During that time, a biker, a family of Mexicans, and a hooker had lived in that tiny apartment. A shade-loving plant that the hooker had tried to grow in the window had died from lack of light. Yet this woman had a tan like a girl on a farm.
“Hey,” said Michael. “I don’t understand. Why …”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “They would have gone to waste anyway.”
Michael hesitated,feeling foolish. As if he had walked in during the second act of a play and was trying to piece together the plot. “I don’t even know your name. I’m Michael.”
“My name’s Karen,” she said. Michael realized as she regarded him with bright blue eyes that she did not fit.
She did not fit the apartment complex; she did not fit the city. She looked like the sort of woman who would bring someone abasket of oranges. And that brought him back to the question that he had put aside earlier: Where had she gotten the oranges anyway? “I’ll see you later,” she said with certainty. And she walked away.
Michael was on his way back to the apartment from his part-time job at the bookstore. He was an hour later than usual—though the city’s buses had continued to run on the city’s emergency supplyof gasoline, they had grown increasingly unreliable in the last six months.
He turned the corner into the apartment court and almost bumped into Karen. The man who lived in the apartment below Michael stood beside her, holding her wrist tightly with a dirty hand. He held a bottle in his free hand and he was saying, “Come on: We can have a drink together. I need company. I’m sick.”
When Michaelstopped beside them, the man bared his teeth in a sort of territorial grin. Michael could not read the expression on Karen’s face. Distaste? Pity?
“Karen. I was hoping I’d run into you,” Michael interrupted the man. A flicker of surprise crossed the woman’s face. Michael continued, “You want to come up to my apartment and have a cup of tea?”
“Hey!” The man swung the bottle at Michael’s headwith a grunt of effort.
Michael had lived in the city since he was young. Street fighting had been a required subject at his high school, though not an officially recognized one. Not a natural fighter, in order to survive, Michael had learned to act rapidly—anticipating his enemy’s moves, analyzing, and countering them.
The man was swaying, already off-balance. Michael caught the arm swingingthe bottle, yanked the man forward, and struck a single, hard punch to the solar plexus. The man’s grip on Karen’s wrist broke and she stumbled back, rubbing her arm. The man fell forward, tripping over his own feet and twisting to one side. The bottle shattered against the asphalt and glass scattered around them. The sweet scent of cheap whiskey rose.
When Michael laid a protective hand on Karen’sarm, the man scowled and started to get up, but collapsed back when he began to cough. The ragged sound began deep in his chest and seemed to tear his throat as it passed. He lay on the pavement amid bits of glass, immobilized by spasms of coughing.
Michael led Karen away, not looking back. “You’re all right, aren’t you?” he asked her.
“I’m fine.” She hesitated, still looking a little surprised,a little puzzled. “Thanks for stopping to help. I don’t expect people to do that in a neighborhood like this.”
Michael hesitated, once again feeling foolish. She acted like they had never met. “I wanted to thank you again for the oranges. I was kind of out of it yesterday and—”
“Oranges?” she interrupted.
“The ones you brought me. Where did you get them anyway? All the stores I’ve been to inthe last week have been out of everything but canned stuff.”
Karen smiled tentatively. “The farmer was going to leave them to rot,” she said. “I guess that must have been it.”
The thought passed through
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