Something of a Kind - By Miranda Wheeler Page 0,8

wax wrapped slice into the bag.

“Greg’s got a tab,” she noted gruffly. “It’s the best o’ the best.”

Aly nodded as the odor of teriyaki salmon jerky prickled her nose. Grabbing the brown paper bag, she fled the building, stepping into a pleasant breeze.

A series of chants drew her attention across the street. In an enclosed lot, attached to portables, men and women danced across a wooden platform.

As an audience of children observed the presentation, they fidgeted and cast glances amongst their peers. Aly couldn’t remove her gaze. With cloaks draped across their backs, the performers spun in unison. Their coordination resembled the formation of migrating flocks.

A fierce array of colors whirred together as they moved. The troupe had seamlessly timed pauses, granting viewers a moment to absorb the details woven into the fabrics. Natural curvature brought dimension to the animalistic features. The cloth on their backs became wings and paws. Each time they turned a new mask claimed their faces.

With a thunderous clap, they concurrently dropped onto one foot. Gloved hands collided, and they balanced one another throughout the chain. With whispered prompts from chaperones, the small spectators applauded. Trading bows, the group shuffled from the stage.

Withdrawing an enraptured stare, Aly returned to the parking lot. She found Greg leaning against the hood, engrossed in an array of papers. As she approached the vehicle, he scribbled a final sentence. Whipping the binder shut, he shoved the evidence into the duffle at his feet.

“Did Terri give you a hard time?” he coughed, an accent choking his self-conscious stutter.

“I didn’t realize you wanted me to run in alone.” Unspoken accusations tainted her tone.

“There was a call from an elder,” he mumbled, as though the vague title justified him. The set of his jaw suggested irritation. It was the same expression he used with her mother before spitting, ‘I am a grown man,’ like it was a threat, a sentence, and a rationalization. She wondered if he really felt he was so untouchable, like he had single-handedly earned the right not to be questioned.

An elder?

Aly suppressed a startled smile. She could only imagine Greg sprinting towards the towering chapel in Kingsley, or even pulling on the lab coat tossed over the basement door and secretively descending into the Ministry of Magic. Despite the series of guest rooms upstairs, he insisted on dragging a futon into the cellar and constructing a slapdash man cave.

Just one more unnecessary means of isolation.

After pausing, Greg added, “I have business with Lee Locklear. You hungry?”

He nodded down the street. She resisted the urge study the elaborate murals along the raised foundation of the building. Squinting to distinguish the letters wrapped around the hook of a thrown line, she made out the faded title ofYazzie’s Seafood and Dining.

“I figure we’ll get some food, since you wouldn’t eat anything earlier.”

That’s the most you’ve said to me all morning.

“Okay,” she murmured, pausing to evaluate her snarling stomach.

Adding the groceries to containers in the trunk, she labored to ignore Greg’s glare. His behavior reminded Aly of her mother’s when sharing lanes with an oil rig: as though something unremarkable was on the verge of an explosion. It altered his motions, posture – even speech. The agitation, and uneasiness was disturbing. raw mixture of distrust,

If not insulting.

She distracted herself with the seaside horizon until she could shake off the observation. As she followed his hurried gait, she focused on beachside couples picking through tidal debris until they were out of sight.

Her fingertips trailed a corkboard coated with event flyers as they ascended the ramp wound around the building. She felt archaic paint chipping beneath her feet until they stepped inside.

As she entered the diner, glass doors swung shut and amplified murmurs of jovial chatter. Weaving around an easel-mounted chalkboard, they obeyed the handwritten direction to seat themselves.

The most animated groups were dispersed amongst the booths. Along the bar, hunched coffee drinkers stirred their brew. The aroma pierced the greasy odors of morning comfort foods.

As they eased into beige seats, the awkwardness of their lack relationship continued to be discomforting. Despite the close proximity, neither made attempts to converse. Furrowing a bushy brow, Greg shielded paperwork in his lap.

Aly faked captivation with the table setting. Painted coasters bearing reindeer and caribou, framed coffee cup stains, were strung across the table. Pinned beneath each was a tattered card stating the restaurant had proudly supported local fisheries since 1968. The backs listed the contents of the to-go freezer, composed of Siberian sausage and pepper sticks.

A flash