In Case of Emergency by Courtney Moreno

started dating neither of them expected it to work out, because they were both just out of relationships and planned to use the other as a rebound. She tells me about the worst date she’s ever been on, how they met for breakfast and the first thing the woman did was order a vodka drink, and the second thing she did was to try to read Ayla’s palm.
    “Did she know how?”
    “Clearly no idea. Just made stuff up, and talked so loud people turned to look. She went on about my childhood for a while, then at some point realized I wasn’t left-handed and switched to reading my right. I remember it was kind of demeaning. Like she was telling a joke, but one that was funny only to her. She had a shit-eating grin on her face the whole time.”
    “What did she say?”
    “Oh, you know. I’d experienced a great loss by the time I was seven that had left me bitter, I would date a woman whose pubic hair would terrify me—”
    “She said what?”
    “You heard me. I’d have three major loves in my life, would have to overcome enormous obstacles, and unless I took up scuba diving by the age of thirty-five, I’d be fated to die young.”
    Ayla tells stories with the practiced face of a storyteller, of someone who may or may not be bluffing. I don’t care either way. I’m glad for the excuse to look at her.
    “Do you scuba?”
    “No.”
    “Then what happened?”
    “Her vodka arrived. She got even more belligerent, which was when I realized she’d been drinking before we met up. I caught a cab home with the money I would’ve spent on breakfast.”
    “And have you had three major loves?”
    “Two and a half. Must be why I’m sitting on this towel.”
    “So this is a date.”
    She rolls over onto her side, which moves all of her body parts about six inches away from all of mine. “You bet your ass it is.”
    She peers at me as I lie on my stomach, propped on my elbows, looking down at her. Her lips parted, eyes like a doll’s—glassy, iridescent. It would take very little effort to lean down and kiss her.
    “I’ve never understood that expression.”
    “Which?”
    “Shit-eating grin. Why would eating shit be a good thing?”
    I stack my fists on top of each other and rest my chin on the hollow created by my fingers. “Do you miss the army?”
    She doesn’t respond at first. I watch a family of four struggle over the sand with a mountain of belongings, feeling her eyes on me.
    “I guess I miss the wacky sense of structure. You always know where you’re supposed to be, even if your orders don’t make sense. You know when mealtimes are even when you don’t know if you’ll get to go on leave.”
    “And now—”
    “Now I have to make my own choices all the damn time.” Her fingers try to twist the flattened plush of the beach towel, but she can’t get a grasp.
    The family stakes ground about fifty yards from us, and as they unload, their wiggling, energetic Jack Russell runs circles around them, kicking up sand, looking at each of them for approval. Again the image of Carl’s photograph flashes across my consciousness. “I don’t ever want to own an animal,” I blurt out, and before I can stop myself I’m telling Ayla the horrible story.
    “That’s awful,” she says when I’m done. “And I thought I already hated little dogs.”
    I laugh, more out of relief than anything. “Do you have any pets?”
    “Now, don’t do that. Don’t change the subject.” She’s serious even though her tone is light. “Have you been thinking about that photo a lot?”
    “It’s more like the woman pops into my head sometimes. Which is weird since I didn’t even go on that call.”
    “She just kind of stayed with you.”
    “Yes.”
    “Ever heard of ‘intrusive images’?”
    I shake my head.
    “It’s therapy-speak for being a crazy person.” She rushes to correct herself. “I mean, temporarily crazy. A lot of vets have intrusive images when they get back. It’s exactly what you’re