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When Sheila reached Bernalillo, she shot close past the end of the eastern Sandia Range, tinted a bright, burnt orange in the setting sun’s rays. Leaving Albuquerque behind, she drove hard and fast, the only way she knew when she hit the I-25’s open road. As she headed toward Santa Fe, the northerly route drifted lazily eastward. It was a long, easy curve for a car doing 95mph through a featureless, sagebrush desert. Further to the east, the desert hardpan rose to meet the Ortiz Range caught in twilight’s distant purple haze.
But Sheila didn’t see any of it. Her wrap-around Ray-Bans focused her perspective and killed the glare from the open road. In fact, they killed most everything: the light, the color, the glare and any thought beyond her destination. She’d seen it all before. She wasn’t impressed then. The I-25 was her hard-wire connection–her life line–between two points: what her life was, and what it would become when she landed on a bar stool at La Chatte Rose.
Ten miles to go. In the waning light, Sheila tossed her sunglasses on the passenger seat. She punched the accelerator, keeping the needle just below the red line. That kick waited for her in Santa Fe. This was her night. She felt it.
***
It was almost dark when she parked up under a flickering streetlight. She watched its cadence, a tempo pulsing between light and dark, perched on the edge of indecision as daylight colors faded to gray.
The street’s black surface held the sun’s August heat. First it warmed the soles of her sandals; then as she crossed the street, the heat climbed higher and higher. She entered the bar when it was the hottest point-at flash point.
Her success rate in this bar had been good. She’d picked up a couple of women over the past months. They hadn’t seemed to mind her choice of local hotel rooms-especially when she was paying. None of them had kicked her need into overdrive, though one, a blonde, Sheila remembered fondly. She’d been just a bit shy when Sheila discovered she actually wasn’t—a blonde.
She took a seat at the circular bar and ordered a margarita. The bartender brought her drink and set it on a hot-pink napkin, the trademark color of La Chatte Rose.
“Thanks,” Sheila said.
“I’ve seen you here before, haven’t I? I’m Janine.” The bartender was friendly, doing her job.
“Sheila.” They touched hands. “Yeah, been here a few times. I like it. Nice and… friendly?” Sheila suggested.
“We aim to please. You local?”
“Albuquerque. I come up here for the culture.”
“Well, we got that, and more.” She smiled back and winked.
“I’m counting on the more, Janine.”
“Hope you get lucky, Sheila.” She blew Sheila a kiss.
“Me too. Thanks.” She watched as the friendly Janine left to serve another drink.
The disco on the floor below was just gearing up when a tall, well-coiffed brunette stepped into the bar. Statuesque, some would have called her. Sheila called her perfect. She casually circled the bar. Sheila watched her prowl. A head above the rest, leggy, full-lipped, she was maxied and minied in all the right places. As she passed behind, she dragged the tips of her fingernails so lightly across Sheila’s shoulders she thought maybe she imagined it. Even imagining it made her shiver. The brunette squeezed into the seat next to her and in greeting, placed a hand on Sheila’s thigh inside the slit of her skirt.
“I bet you’re looking for something special tonight?” Her voice was smooth and soft like the ripple of her fingertips on Sheila’s thigh. Sheila was ready for something special. “I know I am. My name’s Karen, by the way.”
“Sheila.” She placed a warm hand over Karen’s on her thigh. “I’d love something special, Karen,” Sheila said.
Karen reached over with her free hand, lifted the glass and took a sip of Sheila’s margarita. Sheila didn’t mind. She was in the sharing mood.
“I don’t mind sharing, but can I get you a drink?” Sheila asked.
“I love margaritas.”
“Me too. Janine?” As Janine turned, Sheila raised her hand and pointed to the margarita and held up one finger. “What do you do, Karen?”
“I’m a stewardess.”
“You’ve been to a lot of exotic places, I bet,” Sheila said, imagining exotic places, maybe imagining later. Karen’s drink arrived. She took a sip before answering.
“Lot’s of hotel rooms in exotic places. Not much time to explore. I like exploring.” She smiled at Sheila. The back of her hand brushed the inside of Sheila’s thigh, exploring the possibilities. Her eyes posed the question.
Sheila understood. She was a quick learner. The roving hand on her thigh helped. Karen leaned over and whispered in her ear.
“Lets get out of here.”
***
Karen undressed her in the darkened hotel room. Standing behind, she eased the spaghetti straps of La Perla easily down Sheila’s arms. The silky fabric hesitated, caught for a moment on her erect nipples; then it fell with a metallic zing around her ankles to join her panties. Sheila stepped outside everything and turned to Karen.
She held the blade close to her leg. She’d let it fall into the palm of her hand when she removed her blouse. She liked them naked. They were vulnerable when they were naked. Only skin–soft, warm, penetrable.
She moved up close, reached up and touched her hair. It was soft and pliable, natural, genuine, just like her. She pushed it behind her ear then slid her hand down behind her neck and pulled her face and lips close. The tip of her tongue pushed through her moist lips. The invite was eagerly returned.
The scent of her perfume was something she’d always remember. After she did the cutting, she always remembered. She was a perfume expert. She’d made a list: Chanel No. 5, Charlie, CK Be, Azarro Pour Elle, Agent Provocateur Fatale (her favorite). She’d just added a new one, Paradiso by Alberto Cavalli. Those scents brought back such memories. They say the olfactory sense is one of the strongest, but for her, the coppery scent of fresh blood was only the second to it, like putting a penny on your tongue. Taste and smell were connected sensual pleasures.
***
She found her cold car on the street where she’d left it. Her return to earth was a curved line down I-25 toward Albuquerque. She slowly descended like a parachutist feeling the sure pull of gravity. The sky brightened. The sun rose in the east and colored the edge of the Santa Ana Mesa a burnt orange. The ancient lava flow of the mesa had hardened at the edge of the Rio Grande and left a formidable wall of rock and sand that ascended from the river valley to the mesa’s top high above. It was an impressive tableau, still and silent in its inherent beauty.
Karen could almost smell the beauty. For some, life was beautiful.
by 
James Shaffer
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