Borrowed Horses by Sian Griffiths Page A

she’s ready.” Even as the words floated from my mouth, I could see them swirling like smoke rings, bending into Cheryl’s words. She’d lean toward Doreen like a co-conspirator. You know Joan says that, if you’re smart, you’ll stop smoking . I never seemed to be able to find my feet when talking to Cheryl. I decided to escape doing any further damage. “There’s a new article on head trauma imaging I want to check out. I’ll see you later.”
    Again, she smiled that red grin, “Don’t wait for tall, dark, and handsome to call again before you come back up here. You’ll go stir-crazy in that room all by yourself, and you know how I enjoy our little visits.” I turned away before she finished, but her words followed me down the hall. “And don’t worry—I won’t mention that you’re getting personal calls at work. It’s hard enough to find a man once you reach a certain age. That old biological clock, huh? Our looks can’t last forever.”

A Silence
    B renda was stocking produce. She was Dale the butcher’s daughter and had inherited his sloping shoulders, but she wore them differently. On him, they looked resigned; on her, jaded, set low by the tremendous weight of a world designed by adults. Her hair, dyed black to contrast her pale skin and the burgundy of her lipstick, fell in backward-bending spikes, as if they too were tired of fighting gravity and other inexplicable forces. Brenda was a shy girl, for all her bold appearance, and I had always liked her.
    I tore off a plastic sack and sidled up to her, thinking I had perhaps found the perfect co-conspirator. Brenda, a high school student, walked the same halls I once walked. We had an understanding.
    Casual as could be, I picked an orange from the pyramid she was reconstructing with the meticulous slowness of those paid by the hour. “Scorching hot lately,” I said, trying to stall while I thought of tactics.
    Brenda, speaking with the same slow care with which she arranged her fruit, said, “Before you get any further,” she said, “I think it’s only fair to tell you that I’m under strict orders not to reveal any names.”
    “Brenda,” I said, picking up another orange, “I’m hurt. Really. I can’t believe you think that the only reason I’m talking to you is to find out that guy’s name.”
    “No, of course not.” She smiled but didn’t look at me. “You have a deep and abiding interest in meteorology and wanted to compare notes on the day’s heat. You’re right. Scorching hot,” she glanced at me slyly, “like some checker we know?”
    “If I were to agree to that remark,” I said mimicking the mock-serious tone she’d adopted, “I suppose said acquiescence would reach the ears of said anonymous someone, thus building on what is obviously an over-inflated ego.” I plucked another orange from the pile. “No, I reveal nothing.”
    “Whatever, dude,” her quiet voice was light with restrained laughter.
    “O.K., O.K.,” I said. “But, seriously, who is this new guy? I mean, what the hell? I’ve been shopping here for years, and you all take up allegiance against me? Take us, for example. You’ve known me for months, and your father’s known me since I was a kid shopping here with my parents. You guys are deserting me for some fly-by-night checker? I’m hurt, Brenda. Really hurt.”
    Brenda shrugged. “Store loyalty, man.” She looked at me, then laughed softly with the air of a much older, more experienced woman resigned to the foibles of life and humanity. “You guys sure have a weird way of flirting.” Before I could object, she gave me a parting smile and pushed her plastic cart toward the Red Delicious.
    I had six oranges in my sack—when was I going to eat six oranges? I grabbed a head of Romaine, and a six-pack of Newcastle. My luck with the bakery was no better. Arlene stonewalled me before I even had a chance to ask if they had any loaves of wheat still available. “No names,” she called to me