Hair-Trigger Read Free Page A

circumstances, but there: she glanced back again. His pulse quickened. As they approached the first intersection almost parallel to one another, he caught her eye and said, “Excuse me. Would you like a cigarette?”
    â€œOkay,” she answered in a small voice.
    They met in the centre of the road.
    â€œMy name’s Derek,” he said as he held out the pack.
    She took one, smiling shyly. “I’m Sarah.”
    Up close he didn’t find her very attractive, but she was unexpectedly young and there was something appealing in her suppliant stance and the tender way she was looking up at him. From her swarthy complexion he thought she might be Portuguese. “It’s a nice night,” Rowe said, lighting her cigarette, then his own.
    â€œYes.” She barely inhaled.
    â€œYou’re very pretty.”
    â€œThank you.”
    He couldn’t place her accent and wondered what to say next. It felt as if anything at all were possible. “May I give you a little kiss?”
    She shrugged. “Um, okay.”
    He leaned over and put his hand on the side of her head, bringing his lips down to hers. She kissed him back. It was like a strange dream. “I’m certainly glad to meet you. Maybe we should go sit down so we can talk.”
    He took her by the hand and led her to a slight knoll partially concealed by a small tree just off the sidewalk. After they lowered themselves, he flicked his cigarette into the street and kissed her more seriously, slipping his hand inside her open coat and holding her by the waist. Then, moving upwards over her ribs, he palmed her small breast through her blouse and caressed it, feeling the outline and then the growing distinction of nipple unencumbered by bra.
    Rowe looked into her dark eyes while he fumbled with the buttons and pulled open her shirt, trying to commit her tits to memory in case they vanished. As he caressed them she put her hand over his and nervously whispered, “People are there.”
    There was a couple walking up the next street. He leaned back on the grassy dirt and shifted his prick while she rearranged herself, and asked, “Would you like to come back to my place?”
    â€œOkay.”
    She dropped her cigarette and stepped on it as they began walking. Rowe put his arm around her. He tried to piece together the apparent facts: her hair looked clean, the coat and slacks were all right, she didn’t appear to be crazy, and her seeming naiveté didn’t fit the standard hooker profile. Maybe she was some kind of angel. He asked, “Do you live around here?”
    â€œOn Beverley Street.”
    â€œWere you coming back from somewhere when I met you?”
    â€œI was in the bar. Where you were.”
    â€œYou were there too? I didn’t see you.”
    At the corner of Huron and College they got into a cab. He took her hand in the back seat and said he was happy they’d met, but was surprised she wasn’t worried about talking to strangers on dark streets.
    â€œI was bored in my room. I didn’t want to go back.”
    â€œYou were looking for adventure.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDo you have a boyfriend or anything?”
    â€œYes.”
    Rowe assumed that she’d misunderstood, and didn’t pursue it. As he looked out the window it occurred to him that they weren’t far from Beverley, and suggested that they go to her place instead. After telling the driver to take the next right, he asked her where she was from and was perplexed when she said India. It was getting so he couldn’t tell where anyone was from anymore. The cabbie, glancing at them in the rearview mirror, could have been from India, Iran, or fucking who-knows-where himself.
    â€œHow long have you been here?”
    â€œThree years,” she said. “First year I was in Montreal.”
    â€œIs your family here or back home?”
    â€œHome. I came here myself.” She squeezed his hand and