Tracey, the interloper (part 2)
At the police station I called my attorney, who drove downtown to where I’d been drinking the night before. Apparently my Prius was still parked on Vanderbilt, where’d I’d left it.
Just when it seemed like my luck had changed, I go and pass out in the wrong car. I had a cracked rib, bruises just about everywhere and 25 stitches in my forehead. Not only that, but even if I could make bail, I was supposed to go to Africa the next week, but most likely wouldn’t be allowed to leave the country.
“Second time I’ve woken up to you today. Feels like a dream within a dream,” I said, standing up to face her through the bars.
“Yeah.” She regarded me, furrowing her brow, biting her lower lip. “Why’d you cover my mouth with your hand? That really scared me.”
“I dunno. It was the only thing I could think to do. I still thought you’d stolen my car, and that gave me a little propriety. I really just wanted to try have a conversation with you.”
“What do you do?”
“Oh, this and that. Right now, I’m working on a scheme to import a bunch of carpets from Morocco. I’ve done a couple other things, too. How about you?”
“I’m getting my Master’s in Creative Writing,” she said defiantly, which I thought was pretty neat for someone engaged in such a futile pursuit.
She looked me up and down. “Well, I’m sorry you got so beaten up.”
“Yeah. I guess it builds character.”
“I’m going to drop the charges, Mr. Dupree.”
“Tracey, how about I take you out to dinner to thank you?”
Looking me in the eyes, I could hear her thoughts in my head. She was thinking that she should say yes. That maybe I was someone special. Maybe I could be her muse, and we’d dine for years off the story of how we met, me thinking she was a car thief and her thinking I was a rapist. It was dynamite material, sure.
“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” she said.
And then she walked away.
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