Page 4 of Ashes to Ashes

Denni looked longingly at the half eaten hotdog.

"Go ahead," I said. "But I've got to warn you, it's not like the ones George used to make." I started the truck and headed out of the parkinglot.

She picked up the hot dog. "Who's George?" She took a big bite and wiped the chili off her lip with her pinky.

"He's the guy who used to own this gas station. This sounds corny, but my dad and I used to have this tradition where we stopped to have one of George's chili dogs on our way up to his cabin. I thought we'd have one last hot dog together." I reached behind the seat and pulled out a water bottle forher.

She worked a bit at twisting off the cap and took a sip. "That doesn't sound the least bit corny. And I've never had a George dog, but you're right, this chili dog is lacking." She took another bite, chewed and swallowed. "Fortunately, I'm hungry enough to forgiveit."

"I could circle back and buy you anotherone."

"Nope, this is good. Thank you." She finished off the last bite and licked her fingertips, a gesture that grabbed far more of my attention than it should have. Emma would so fucking not approve. Something about that made me extra glad I'd offered Denni theride.

Denni slouched down in the seat and lifted her long legs so her knees pressed against the dashboard. She pulled off her hat, rested her head against the seat and turned her face to stare out the window. "Hey, there's actual scenery out there. Viewing the world through crumpled plastic was getting depressing."

"If you don't mind me asking, how the hell did you end up with a guy likethat?"

She continued to stare out the window. "Screwing up my life—just something I'm good at. Zeke was just another bad mistake in a long string of fuckups." She sat up with energy, almost as if she'd just shaken off a cloud of depression. I wondered if she was heartbroken about Zeke. I hopednot.

A beaded bracelet twirled around her thin wrist as she looked for a station. The only thing she found was a loud buzz, a religious station and a weather report.

"My box of CDs is under theseat."

She curled over and searched for the box. As she reached for it, the edge of her shirt slipped up to reveal her lower back and a string of stars tattooed around her hips. I had to remind myself to pay attention to the road. Not that there was much traffic or many impediments to worry about.

"Ah ha." She popped her head back up, and her hand emerged with the box of licorice that had slipped beneath the seats on a fast stop. The box of CDs came out next. She lifted it onto the seat next to her and thumbed through the collection. She pulled out a Mariah Carey CD and held it up with a judgmental browlift.

"That one belongs to my girlfriend."

"Thank god." She pushed it back into the box. "The Ramones. Now we're talking." She pulled the CD out and pushed it into the player. Then she ripped open the package of licorice whips and offered me one, before pulling one out for herself. She nibbled it. The red of the candy contrasted perfectly with the natural pink of her lusciouslips.

She took a bite and talked over the chunk in her mouth. "So, you've got a girlfriend who likes Mariah Carey. Let me guess—she's someone who likes to buy a new purse for every season and who thinks fun is a stuffy, formal dinner party with friends where they serve tiny portions of weird ingredients and laugh mockingly at the very idea of a double cheeseburger. Oh, and she has a white cat named Miffy that she only allows on one certain chair in her impeccably furnished apartment." She pulled off another bite of licorice and looked at me to confirm her guesses.

"You could tell all that from oneCD?"

"Music preference speaks volumes." She laughed at herpun.

"Well, Emma—"

Denni interrupted. "Emma? Huh, I was thinking something more like Linda or Nancy. Don't know why. Continue."

"Emma," I repeated, "is allergic to cats, so there's no Miffy or Rex, for that matter, because she keeps insisting her allergy also covers dogs and anything with fur. Self-diagnosis, of course. But she does have more purses than I have socks, and she likes the aforementioned stuffy parties. I, on the other hand, would rather have my eyes scratched out by an angry Miffy than sit through a dinner party with her equally stuffy friends. She's the daughter of a wealthy businessman, and somehow, I managed to get talked into working for the man. Although, managed isn't really a good word. I was desperate. I'd come out of college with a worthless economics degree, and aside from a riveting six month stint in the corporate office of a grocery chain—and yes, total sarcasm there—I needed to find a job or risk feeling like a miserable loser."

"Yep, pretty much the scenario I was thinking. Except the working for the dad part. That sounds kind of depressing."

Denni reached between her legs and hauled up her solidly stuffed backpack. She rummaged through the front pocket and pulled out a rubber band. She dropped the pack down and lifted her arms up to tie her hair back in a ponytail. It took several tries for her to sweep up the entire mass of silky hair, but once accomplished, I found myself focused on her long, smooth neck. Everything about her was mesmerizing.

Completely unaware of the effect the innocent task of putting up her hair had had on me, she continued the conversation. "Do you like your job with the wealthy businessman who might someday be your dad-in-law?"

"Hate myjob."

"So, you are still a miserable loser, only now you have a job to go along with the loserdom."

"Well, I've never thought of it like that, but thanks so much for putting it in that context. Now I can go back to feeling glum about mylife."

"I firmly believe in dashing spirits whenever given the opportunity." She laughed. "No seriously, Luke, what would you rather be doing?"

"If I'm completely honest with myself, I want to be a writer like mydad."

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