Out-Of-Towner
by Joshua Grasso
The sun passed behind the clouds, enveloping the buildings in shadow. The woman entered the shadows, too, pausing in front of a striking art deco facade to stare in wonder. The crosswalk began to beep with warning. Horns honked impatiently as she blocked the intersection. She didn't seem to notice, her gaze drifting from window to window to the very top. A car buzzed past, the driver shouting some obscenity in its wake. She shook her head as if shooing a fly; she only had eyes for the building.
A cop noticed her, could tell she was from out-of-town. But more than that, she seemed out-of-place, foreign. A tourist from somewhere without cities and traffic. Her faded floral-print dress and white hat set askew on her head reminded him of a painting come to life. Everything about her seemed borrowed somehow, a note-perfect copy of the original except for one thing. It didn't fit. Not here, and not on her.
"Excuse me, miss? You lost?" he asked.
Her eyes flashed over to him, clearly taking notice of him for the first time.
"This building. What do you call it?" she asked.
He couldn't place the accent because there wasn't one. The words made complete sense, but without that unique stamp of time and place. Like she was from nowhere at all.
"The Metropolitan. It's a hotel. Has a nice restaurant up top. Maybe your husband can take you?"
A cheap shot, but what the hell? He couldn't read the expression, but the eyes lit up: she took the bait.
"I'm not here with a husband. I came alone, to see this place. I especially like this building."
"A tourist, eh? Here for some pictures?"
"Yes, exactly," she said, with the faintest hint of a smile.
"I'll show you just the right spot, away from the traffic," he gestured. "It's where that one fellow took the picture of it they use in the billboards. You know the one?"
"Of course," she said, taking his arm.
