I pass through a beaded doorway into another portion of the shop with large crystals lining shelves. But still no one.
“Hello?” I try again.
Pushing open a swinging door on the far end of the room, the most delectable smell of food fills my nose. My stomach twists into knots and my knees nearly buckle. I’m about to turn around and leave before I pass out when a voice calls out to me.
“Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anyone was here.”
I turn to see a middle-aged woman with tightly curled white hair pulled up into a mess on her head. A purple silk scarf is tied around her head to help tame the wild mass of hair.
“I was just about to sit down for an early lunch,” she says, a slight accent I can’t pinpoint creating a seductive lilt to her voice. Her steps falter almost imperceptibly as her eyes rake over my battered form.
I want to shirk away from her scrutiny and judgment. “I’m sorry, I can come back later,” I respond quickly, turning toward the door, hoping to distract her from my many injuries.
“Nonsense. As per usual, I made way too much. Would you care to join me? I really do hate eating alone.”
I stare at the woman, shocked by her hospitality. Which shouldn’t be shocking since I live in the South, but whoever said southerners were hospitable were liars.
Her smile is curled up, crinkling around her eyes and making the deep brown color glisten in the artificial light. Her warm golden skin, covered in sunspots and freckles, shows a life well lived, drawing me in and setting my nerves.
I want to turn away from the stranger, but my subconscious assures me that she’s safe. So, I dip my chin, and her grin grows even more to the point it causes her eyes to squint.
She gestures to a chair at the table and flits into the kitchen, leaving a flurry of pale green fabric and the waft of patchouli in her wake. The uncommon scent makes my shoulders lower from my ears. Perhaps it’s more of the air of purity surrounding her than the hint of her free spirit that draws me in, but I don’t fight my original assessment. Especially not when she returns a few moments later with two bowls of chili sprinkled with cheese and corn chips. She then places sparkling water in front of both of us.
Part of me is curious how she knows what I like, but that’s not what comes from my lips. “Thank you,” I mutter.
“You’re very welcome. Thank you for eating with me. I find company helps food digest more effectively. Don’t you think?”
I shrug noncommittally and take a big bite of food. The spices explode across my tongue, and it takes all of my will not to moan sinfully. “Depends on the company,” I mumble into my bowl.
Her head is thrown back as a raucous laugh comes from her. She eventually places a hand on her chest, trying to pull herself together. A smile curls up my face, unable to help myself. Her joy is contagious.
“How long have you been here?” I ask, trying to make conversation. Also curious how the Bible-thumpers haven’t run her off.
“Not long. I move frequently. Always going wherever I’m needed.”
“How do you know where you’re needed?” I inquire.
“The wind tells me,” she says with a shrug, as if it's the most common thing in the world.
“The wind talks to you?” Even I can hear the condescension in my voice and I cringe, feeling terrible for treating her exactly like everyone treats me.
If the smile on her face is any consolation, she doesn’t take it personally. “Tell me, have you ever felt a sensation that directs you? Perhaps you’re walking down a street and you just know you need to speed up or turn around. Or maybe there’s a strong urge to shut your mouth and not say what just popped into your head.”
“Well, yeah,” I admit. Not wanting to admit just how often that occurs to me. “Though, usually I've learned the hard way about not listening to it.”
That earns me another chuckle from her. “Stubborn, yet astute. A dangerous combination for sure.”
“What makes you say that?” Being stubborn has only brought on more pain for me. Or at least since I moved here.
“It means you’re strong.”
I scoff, though it comes out more of a choked sound as I’m shoveling in more food.
“You disagree?” she counters, refilling my bowl.
“I’m not strong. It’s why I’m stuck here,” I mumble. The words taste like acid on my tongue.
“What makes you think you’re stuck?” The question is painful, but her tone belies her sympathy.
