Saturday's Storyteller: "She blew in like the dusty wind after the passing of a sandstorm."

by Belinda Roddie

She blew in like the dusty wind after the passing of a sandstorm. When she drank from a bottle, one could see her pores light up from the heat and the lust of the liquor. And when she was approached by every man in the bar, she dismissed them without even a wave of her hand or a dismissive look, but instead with a blink of an eye. One eye. Her left.

I sat on the stool beside her and was attracted to the desert lingering behind her gaze. When I asked her if she wanted another drink, she didn't blink me away. I would not be concealed behind the shield of her eyelids. Her lashes were blunt blades against my grin. I was no man, and no woman. I was far more aggressive in my steps than she could ever expect.

I offered a bony hand for her take. She took it. When she did, she disintegrated, easily, into grainy sands against my fingers. I brushed the ash off, collected my things, and sipped from her remaining glass, the amber dripping from the holes in my chin.

It was only a part of my job, to take the desert out of the people who were meant to touch me. And when I did, they became air, and nothing mattered anymore.

This week's prompt was provided by Kyle Oathout.