Bound for Home (Tyler Cunningham Shorts) Read Free

vending machine ).
    “I think that’s it for now.” Cynthia said as she dropped into the chair beside me. “See what you get out of that pile, and maybe we can re-direct before closing.” Her leg bumped into mine as she stretched out her toes … I jumped and she gave a little grumpy noise, part surprise/anger/sadness.
    “For Fuck’s sake Tyler!” she hissed at me. “I’m not going to jump you. I’m pretty sure that I can control myself even though we’re all alone back here, and you’re wearing those sexy water-shoes.”
    Cynthia had been my research assistant ( her salary paid by the taxpayers of Saranac Lake, not me though ) for nearly six months, ever since I had moved to the Adirondacks from New York City in the aftermath of the devastation ( both personal and national ) wrought by the attacks of 9/11/2001. Although she was employed by the library ( as a somewhat-paid library tech ), she generally cleared her desk and calendar to help me whenever I came in with a focused research challenge for her. 
    We had initially connected because I needed/ requested some research help, and she was available; we had continued the relationship through the early awkward sessions because we both loved mining data, and were roughly the same age … in library terms ( she was a young-seeming 20-something, and I’m a mature, if different, almost-20-something ). The other people working in the Saranac Lake Public Library were decades older, and had no time for, patience with, or interest in my diverse and un-Adirondack-y ( -esque? ) research … not to mention the amount of printed paper, computer bandwidth, and inter-library loan requests I generated through my ongoing education/research.
    We’d had a tense pause in our working relationship roughly ten weeks ago, when she had told me to ask her out ( she had been between boyfriends at the time, a rare occurrence ), and as we had been spending so much time together since my arrival in town, she mistook the tenor of my interest in her. I had ‘fled the interview’, and avoided her ( and worse, the library ) for weeks afterwards. I would have been hard-pressed to explain my fear/anger/disgust at her advances ( and my lack of understanding about them ), but we managed to work things out when she cornered me at SmartPig, and forced a confrontation that allowed us to recommence our working relationship. We were still settling into our improved/enhanced/defined relationship, and because of that, I was more than ever aware of her physical presence and the implicit sexual tension between two adult humans of the opposite sex working alone after most people have left a building.
    “I’m sorry.” I said, not s orry, or entirely understanding what I was apologizing for, but certain that she perceived the need for an apology on my part ( and to complete the work that I wanted to get done before falling on the Chinese place like an angry mob … I could pretend ). “This looks great, thanks Cyn.” ( which she had asked that I call her ).
    I did the thing t hat Cynthia loves to watch next, sorting data into ‘useful’ and ‘junk’ piles through some higher ( or lower ) order functioning. I stood over the pile of newly deposited papers, focused on some keywords and concepts, and started shuffling the papers to one side or the other … most went to the right, a few went to the left in a much neater sub-pile. The maps went as quickly as I could move my hands, the old newspaper and magazine articles ( some copied from microfiche ) went a bit slower, but still faster than I could have read them. Within two minutes, I had separated the wheat from the chaff, indicated which pile Cynthia could remove, and sat down to actually read through the much smaller pile left to me by the sorting process.
    “Thanks Cyn.” I said as she took the stuff wherever the stuff that I don’t want goes. A few months ago, she was still checking the discards to see if I was trying to fake her out or just