The woman shook her head. “Never.”
The wind whistled. Never was long time. Never was an eternity.
Did the woman know what she was promising?
The wind swirled around the crystal-drop necklace the boy had given her. It rested against her chest, warmed by the beating of her heart. Little rainbow prisms slid over her skin. They reflected the sun bouncing through crystal. The wind tapped a spray of red, then orange, then indigo.
“Two things then,” the boy said, staring at the woman. “First, stay alive. Sometimes, you act like you don’t matter?—”
“I do not act?—”
“—but you matter to me.”
“Oh. That’s really sweet.”
“Second . . .”
The woman pressed forward and nibbled on the boy’s mouth. “Second?”
His reply was muffled beneath her seeking mouth. “Don’t forget, if you ever need me?—"
“I need you.”
The boy laughed as his mouth was crushed. Then he stopped laughing. And he stopped talking.
Instead, he concentrated on saying as many things as possible without speaking at all.
The wind knew the words. He was the longing rush of the cool, salty ocean leaning toward the distant shore. He was the wind blowing across scalding gypsum deserts, seeking a curling wisp of shade. He was the dark, lonely night, sighing at the comforting brush of dawn.
The boy was alone like the night was alone. But here was the sun, spreading its loving fingers into the dark, reaching for his hand. The boy held the woman’s hands in his and remembered what it was like to be whole.
Later, after breakfast and tea, and coffee with two spoonfuls of sugar and no cream, the citrus and pearl dust scented woman left the boy’s apartment. She was a Bard, so she left hidden in the guise of a middle-aged man with a large neck and eyebrows as fuzzy as woolly caterpillars. The wind left with her, riding on the edge of her smile.
She smiled in the taxi. She smiled as she hurried through the din of the narrow street leading to her apartment building. She smiled as the toothless old woman called her over to inspect her waving plastic cats.
“A good-looking man like you,” the old woman said, baring a toothless grin, “needs a pretty fan like this!”
The old woman held out a pink and gold paper fan.
The citrus and pearl dust scented woman smiled. “No, thank you.”
The wind sniffed the fan. It smelled like glue, bamboo, and jasmine.
The woman was still smiling when she slipped by the table, headed toward her apartment and the musician. But the old woman snapped her arm out and caught the citrus and pearl dust scented woman’s fat, hairy wrist.
“It’s going to be hot today,” the toothless woman said. “You’ll need a fan.”
Finally, the citrus and pearl dust scented woman’s smile faded.
“One dollar,” the old woman wheedled. “You wouldn’t rob an honest old woman of her living, would you? A body has to eat. A body has to live.”
The citrus and pearl dust scented woman narrowed her eyes, her caterpillar brows pulling down in an angry V. “I said no.” She pulled her wrist free.
“One dollar for a pretty fan. It’s a bargain. In this heat, a fan is a lifesaver.”
The wind sniffed the toothless old woman, sneezing at the mothball scent of her heavy clothes.
The citrus and pearl dust scented woman turned to the side and, hiding her motions, twisted her hand. “Fine. Here,” she said, handing over a conjured dollar. “I’ll take the fan.”
