The Harem on the Hill (Part II)

"Need a ride?"

Tina Jordan peers out into the rain from beneath the awning of Cornucupia, the coffee shop she just locked the door of. "Hey, what are you doing here?"

"I thought you closed at midnight," you say from the half-open window of your Ford Explorer.  

"Only on weekends," she says. Between the downpour and the slapping wipers, you can barely hear her.  

"Jump in," you say. "I'll give you a lift."

"That's OK," Tina says after a moment's hesitation. "I was just going to see if it lets up."  

"Well, at least wait in here. It's warm and I'm playing Enya." The Irish folk singer played incessantly over Cornucupia's staticy ceiling speakers.  

"Oh great," she says, cracking a smile. "I think I'll stay wet."   

"Suit yourself," you say. "I'll be rocking to Time and Tide if you change your mind." With that, you roll your window up.

Conveniently, it starts pouring even harder. You watch as Tina huddles beneath the shallow canopy, arms folded across her short sleeve work blouse. The jean shorts that complete the ensemble offer even less protection. Wind-blown drops punish her bare legs and sandaled feet.  

After a minute, Tina rushes from the shelter holding the day's newspaper over her head like an old movie. She throws open the passenger door and lands with a splash on your SUV's heated seat.  You hand her a towel.

"Thanks," she says, rubbing the cloth across her face and neck.  

"Where to?" 

"Do you mind if I just sit here a few minutes? It never rains this hard for long."

"No problem."  You're not sure if her reticence is stranger-danger related or embarrassment about her shoddy abode, but you suspect it's the latter.  Tina sneezes into the towel. "Bless you," you say. "Hope you didn't catch a cold."

She sneezes again. And again. "Do you have cats?" Tina sniffles between fits.

"No." You fish a handkerchief from your console and hand it to her. 

"Sorry," she says with a frail smile. She holds the tissue beneath her nose as another sneeze erupts.  

You take another handkerchief from the console. "Do you need another?"  

Tina slumps in her seat, slowly leaning until her head rests against the passenger window.

"I guess not." You return the handkerchief to the Ziploc it came from, back slowly out of the lot, and drive off into the darkness.  

                                                                                   ***

You pace your study like an expectant father.  Did you make a mistake?  Tina's abduction went smoothly--you're certain there were no cameras in the parking lot and hardly anyone was on the roads--but that's not the point.  You know Tina. You like Tina. You've been seen with Tina. It's a faint connection, sure, but a connection nonetheless. It's going to complicate things.  

Still, you doubt you'd be feeling the same adrenaline with either of the other finalists. It's intoxicating.

Suddenly, your computer emits a shrill beep. You check the monitor--she's beginning to stir!

You watch Tina writhe restlessly on the bed you placed her.  She looks delicate to the point of frailty. Like a baby bird floundering in a Queen-sized nest.  Eventually, she rolls to the edge, dangles her legs off the side, and pushes herself to a seated position. 

You press a button on your computer's console and speak--

"How are you feeling?"

Tina stands and folds her arms across her chest. She glances around the room, wondering where the voice is coming from.  

"You can talk. I can hear you."

"Fine," she says, looking skywards. 

"Good. Can I get you anything?"

Tina's arms stay clamped across her torso.  "Something warmer?" she finally says.

You considered changing her out of her damp uniform but thought better of it. "Of course. Check the bureau." 

Tina moves to an antique chest of Mahogany drawers along the wall. She opens the top one and removes a white Terry cloth robe.

"Is this your idea of foreplay?" Tina says.   You detect a slight smile, but it quickly vanishes and she drops the garment back in the drawer. "Or did we already...did you..."

"No."

Tina stands rigid. For a moment you fear your monitor may have frozen, but then she dons the robe and ties it tight across her tiny waist, leaving the belt's ends dangling nearly to her knees. She's lither than some of the fashion models you used to date, but while their famined forms were born of a maniacal desire to stay thin, Tina's seems a result of circumstances beyond her control.

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes."  

"Help yourself."

Tina wanders into an adjacent kitchen.  You press another button on your computer and the monitor snaps to a view of her opening a refrigerator.   If she's surprised by the amount of food packed inside it, she doesn't let on.   After some consideration, she removes a foot-long sandwich.    

"Will you be joining me?" she says, looking straight at the camera.

Her invitation takes you aback.  "Not right now," you finally choke out.  

Tina shrugs and sits down at the kitchen table.  She eats daintily, but with purpose, pausing only occasionally to dab her mouth with a napkin.  It takes nearly thirty minutes for her to work her way through the whole sandwich, but you watch the entire time transfixed.     

Looking satisfied, Tina leans back in the chair, rests a hand on her belly, and turns towards the camera--

"Now what?"

Now what, indeed.