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He sits cross-legged by the fire, and she stares at him from the opposite side, through the flames. From her vantage point he looks ruddy, handsome. Her companion is beside her, whispering in her ear: I took a look at his pack. Just some clothes, cooking tools. I told you, she said. You have to learn to trust people. Ask him how to get back. She does so. The stranger purses his lips; she sees they are cracked and bloody from the dry climate. No, sorry, he says. Don't know … For a moment she wonders if he interpreted her question correctly -- Did he realize we were  |
asking about how we could get back, and not how he could get back? But the stranger is unzipping his pack to extract some thermal blankets. They are heavily wrinkled, like a microscope close-up of human skin, and he hands them to the two hikers. Please, he says. Thanks very much, she replies, and she clasps her hands together in the formal symbol of gratitude. The stranger laughs at the sight. Good, he says, good. Little more can be said. The three sit by the fire a bit longer, but the winds are picking up, and the two hikers are soon shivering, their arms around each other. The stranger looks upon them with a thoughtful expression. Love? he says to her, and the word sounds jowly coming from his lips.  |
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