A dark figure barreled through her front door and slammed it shut. They dropped to the floor and heaved. Their damp, tattered cloak and muddy boots told a quick tale. “I can hide you,” Whima said, clutching the jar. She was set to beat this person to death with it if need be. “But if you wanna stay up in my place, you gotta pay.” Gloved hands reached. Whima shuffled backwards, eyes on their busy digits. “What you got there?” They chucked a heavy sack at her feet. Coin clattered and spilled upon hardwood.
She told them to pay and figured they wouldn’t. It was a sure fire way to get this stranger out of her house. Whima didn’t have a phone, a tablet, or a TV. She’d left all manner of technology in the city. The only thing worth a damn in her home was a record player and an ancient stock pot she called a cauldron.
“Well, shit.” Whima scowled at the hooded stranger. “I got a couch and cellar, if you need hiding. Stay out my kitchen and my ice box. Understood?”
They sat there, silently, blocking the only exit.
“Hello?”
After clearing their throat, the runaway spoke. “Yes.”
Their timbre was smooth as whipped shea and deeper than a well. Whima set the jar on her kitchen table and squatted. She scooped up payment but kept eyes on them.
“Twenty-four hours,” they rasped. “That’s all I need.” Whima stood, securing the weighty pouch. She knotted leather and stored funds in a cookie tin with the rest of her money.
“One day is all I’m willing to give.”
“Thank you.”
“Hm.” She swung them a side eye and checked on her wax. “I don’t care what you’ve done, but if you try me, I’ll make it hurt.”
“I am a man of honor, madam. I’m not in the business of hurting people.”
“Good. Keep it that way.” “What’s your name?” he asked. “You first.”
“Shade.”
Whima grimaced, staring into her steaming blend. “What kind of name is that?”
“I do believe this was supposed to be an exchange.”
Whima scoffed, hand on her hip. She pursed her lips and snatched up a towel.
“Whima.”
“Whima,” Shade drawled, trying it on. She winced as they repeated her name like an incantation. As if it were a spell, something divine. Whima almost dropped her pot.
“What an interesting name.”
“It was my Mother’s.”
“Nice to meet you, Whima.”
“I’d say the same only you haven’t removed that hood yet.” She placed her stock pot on a warming plate and dipped the ladle into a steaming goldenrod pool. “And if I’m gonna meet somebody, I like to look them in the eye.”
Shade chuckled, resting arms on his knees. He was a large fellow with big hands. She was certain he’d break her in half but the moment Shade removed the hood, his stature no longer mattered.
J. T. Frost 