Page 51 of Small Town Hunter

“Um,” says Trina.

“Yes,” I tell the woman.

“ID?”

Frowning, Trina fishes out her expired ID. The waitress barely looks at it before handing it back and smiling at me again.

Christ.

“One Mango Marg, coming up, honey.”

“If I had a new one I could just fly to Cali,” Trina sighs, flipping the ID between her fingers.

“Yeah. Batting your eyes won’t work all the time, I’m afraid.”

“I can’t believe I have to show my ID just to get some juice. Is that normal?”

“When you’re buying alcohol, yes.”

“Alcohol?”

“That’s what a margarita is. Tequila and some other shit.”

She stares at me blankly.

“Please tell me you knew that,” I groan.

“I did know that,” she says quickly.

I like Trina. The thought comes out of nowhere and it hits me all wrong.

“You never went out with friends?” I ask her. “What did you do all day?”

She hesitates. “I ran the bible study at church. I did a lot of crafts. Quilting with the womens’ circle. Calligraphy. I made the schedules. I sang in the choir, and I prayed. I slept a lot. Sometimes when I had nothing to do I would sleep all day long.”

She was lonely.

“You didn’t use the internet?”

“I used it to schedule the church events.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I– no. Not really, I didn’t. Jermaine did.” Every time she mentions her brother she gets that look, like she’s watching something cute and fluffy get run over by a tractor.

“Who’s the president right now? Do you know what year we’re in?” I tease.

“Very funny. I’m willing to learn anything.”

“Good,” I tell her. Nobody writes the story of your life. Nobody controls your destiny but you.”

“And God,” she says faithfully.She smiles at me. “Thanks.”

The wholesome Disney schtick is awkward coming from a guy like me.

“What was it like? Traveling with the military– seeing the world?” Trina asks suddenly.

I watch the waitress approaching and I see hollowed-out buildings and hungry children, and I smell blood and brains soaking into shit-colored sand. Gunfire.

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