Free Magnolia Blossoms by Rhonda Dennis

drawing me closer and closer. A car, headlights off, slowly rolls up alongside her, but as soon as she leans into the passenger side window, the car zooms off, tires squealing against the pavement.
    “Well, fuck you, too!” she yells towards the rapidly disappearing taillights. The driver makes a rapid U-turn in the middle of the street and barrels back in our direction. A young man clinging to the top of the car sits in the frame of the passenger side window, and once the car rolls to a stop, he yells, “Cougar? You passed that shit up about twenty years ago, grandma! Do the world a favor and retire that snatch!” He bangs his palm against the roof of the car, while peals of laughter echo through the night.
    “What’s wrong? Afraid you might try it and like it? Just as well; you can’t afford me. Your entire Taco Hell paycheck wouldn’t even cover a hand job from me.”
    “Bitch! I don’t work at no taco place. I’m an entrepreneur.”
    “That means you have no paycheck. You’re wasting my time. Fuck off.”
    The carload of boisterous men taunts her further. She threatens them with bodily harm, which they laugh at until she starts digging around in her oversized bag and pulls out a butterfly knife that she expertly manipulates to ready the blade.
    “Dude, she’s like fucking Bruce Lee or some shit. Ride!”
    “Go! Go! Go!” the guy hanging out the passenger window yells, banging his palm against the roof, this time to express urgency. The tires squeal as the car races down the darkened, deserted street. All becomes quiet again, except for the sound of the occasional dog barking or cat meowing. The woman mumbles under her breath and still has no clue that I’m near her in the shadows. I realize she’s crying, and my nurturing side wants to comfort her. Stepping out of the shadows, I inch toward her. I reach for her, resting my hand upon her shoulder, when I hear a zap , feel a supercharged jolt of electricity, and then go for a swim in a sea of darkness.
    *****
    The first of the five senses that comes back to me is smell. There’s an odd odor around: a mix of cigarette smoke, patchouli, and bacon, with slight undertones of mentholated muscle liniment. Next is my hearing. I’m pretty sure a western is playing on a TV in the background, or at least I hope that’s where the sound of clomping horse hooves and the pow-pow of pistol fire is coming from. I slowly open my eyes, and as things come into focus, I see a tile ceiling that has seen far better days. I’m sure it was once white, but between the smoke which hangs heavily in the air, and the obvious water damage, it’s now a dingy yellow-brown. Without moving my head, I dart my eyes around the room, desperately trying to figure out where in the hell I’m at.
    The room is relatively dark, except for the little bit of light spilling from the television. I’m lying on a lumpy rust-orange velour sofa, and to my right is an avocado green and chocolate brown striped recliner rapidly rocking back and forth. I can’t see who is seated in it because the chair’s back is facing me. I know it’s occupied, not just from the rocking, but from the puff of smoke that rises upwards every thirty seconds or so.
    I sit up, and even though I do it slowly, I feel a sudden rush to my head. Grasping my forehead, I wait until the sensation passes before moving again. The chair spins around, and with a lit cigarette one hand and a stun gun in the other, the platinum blonde granny gives me the stink eye.
    “Ha-how did I get here?” I softly ask, gently raising my hands in the air.
    “How the fuck do you think you got here?” she asks in a gravelly voice.
    I nervously shake my head. “I don’t know.”
    “I dragged your ass. My turn to ask a question. Why were you sneaking around in the dark in this hood? I ain’t never seen you around here before.”
    “I-I was…” The words won’t come out. All I can concentrate on is the stun gun she keeps fiddling