STORIES
Charles Newman
THE WOMAN WHO THOUGHT LIKE A MAN
"Then how should I revenge myself? "
Cymbeline
Corinne
L.
Huff had a cold. The air nozzle above her seat
was locked full on, coursing a chill upon her forehead for the entire
flight. The gentleman beside her had no more luck with it than the
purser or the stewardess . "Nothing seems to work right any more,"
he said, "even in first class." Corinne could only shrug assent and
sniffle.
She had waited a half an hour for her luggage as the men with
their carry-ons streamed by her. The strap of her cosmetic case spread
a dull pain along her collarbone. Gusts of sourceless wind through
the half-completed terminal pimpled her legs. A college girl in jeans,
breasts banging her sweatshirt about, strode by, her suitcase on roller–
skates. The flourescent corridors are slippery with disinfectant . They
shine but issue neither reflection nor shadow. A porter sits discon–
solately on the edge of the conveyor belt, and lowers his gaze as
Corinne catches him eyeing her. Not one to pull rank gratuitously,
she walks over to make talk.
"You
guys really working up a sweat today, huh?" His dark face
became friendlier. puffier.
"No ma'am. Nobody got much baggage any more. They don 't
care for waitin' on it, carr'in' it, or packin' it."
"Well, I have my samples in mine," Corinne said curtly, hand–
ing him her stub . "The whole trip's wasted without them."
