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Out West
She stood by the side of the street, holding a small object in her hands.
I couldn't tell what it was; she clutched it tightly. In the same manner
her garb enveloped her form from head to toe, a scarf allowing only a few
wisps of brown hair to escape. She glanced at me curiously, seeming to know
me yet saying not a word. I too glanced darted glances out of the corner
of my eye, briefly meeting her gaze. As I drew abreast, I looked hard for
a moment. I was out of her line of sight for a short moment and took the
opportunity to stare without apprehension.
Nothing transpired.
I went inside and at down at a table. Now she turned to cross the street,
then hesitated and came around the shop, right up to the window. As I sat
self-absorbed it took me a moment to feel her gaze striking me with the
pressure of a thousand murmurs. I looked up into her eyes and then she turned
and fled.
But at that moment of her departure, she let the object clasped in her hands
fall to the ground. As she disappeared down the street, I nimbly stepped
out to retrieve her treasure. I stooped and picked up a wad of paper. I
turned to throw it out, then unfolded it and read the inscription within.
Then I too ran down the street, in desparate pursuit.
By the sides of the road in most states out west, you find markers with
small high-velocity holes in them. One sign that I saw near a missile silo
had been punctured so many times it was more hole than sign. A gaping blistered
orifice in the center left no clue as to the original message. One could
imagine bored soldiers repeatedly strafing it with their assault rifles.