Untitled Short Story Part 1

She walked on a humid morning through the woods. It was warmer than it looked like it should be, and more muggy. The sun was out, but it wasn’t cutting through the wet in the air.

She thought she was alone on the trail. Completely alone. But there was someone there. He was far, but walking toward her.

She tried to decide if he was harmless or not by shooting quick glances loosely in his direction without it appearing as though she were looking directly at him. She couldn’t tell.

The gap between them got smaller. She looked up when he was near, but he said hello before she could take control.

“Good morning.”

He stopped. She kept walking.

He turned.

“Do you know if the Visitor Center is open at this hour?”

“It should be. The park is open.”

“Do you know which way is the fastest to get there?”

“That way,” she said, without knowing. She regretted it right away. She didn’t know who he was and he could be a threat. But he might not be and he might need help.

Still, she didn’t fix it. Too much intimacy with a stranger and why was he talking to her anyway?

He looked that way.

“Thanks,” he said. And put his hand out.

She shook it, hiding her incredulity at his presumption.

He walked one way, she the other.

After a few steps she turned to confirm he wasn’t following her. A few steps more and she checked again.

She looked a third time when she felt she’d put enough distance between them that she shouldn’t see him at all and felt a ping in the palm of her hand.

The hand she’d touched him with.

She punished herself for acquiescing. Now he’s given her something. And it was her own fault.

What could it be? Something gross. A virus. They’re contagious. And he was sweating.

She got off the trail and into her car, wrapped in a film of her own sticky sweat.

Off to work the next morning to the cool structure of the office.

She tries to log in and gets her password wrong. Typed too fast.

Wait wait wait. Outlook is so slow it kills her. She’s in a hurry to send the office the first e-mail of the day. She didn’t rush the whole way here to not let everyone know she was there before they were.

Leverage.

The e-mail leaves her inbox and she feels a prick in her palm. Was it bigger than yesterday’s ping? Why hadn’t she done something then?

Every time she feels it she sends a little shock of resentment to the guy who placed it there. She digs antibiotic ointment out of her desk and smears it onto her palm.

What kind of person does that? Has a living, spreading virus and shakes a stranger’s hand? A stranger who was trying to help him.

She inspects her palm and can see nothing growing. But she can feel it buzzing underneath her skin.

People start shuffling past her office. The resigned footsteps that betray defeat.

Checking in. Small talk with the staff. A necessary distraction from the start of the day.

Rush rush rush. People think the world will end if she doesn’t get their stuff done yesterday.

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