Free Earth Colors by Sarah Andrews

could not take the strain, who couldn’t get her brain around the simple task of writing a few messages, who quit writing, who failed to support him as he supported all of us.
    I settled for typing some more newsy bits, then sent off my e-mail and closed down the computer. I had no sooner gone off-line, thereby clearing the phone line, when the telephone rang. I glanced at the clock. It was seven A.M. Wondering who would call this early, I picked it up and said hello.
    A familiar voice filled the line. “Hi, Em.” It was Ray, the man I had been nuts over before I met Jack.
    I sat there with my mouth hanging open for some good ten or fifteen seconds, because I had not heard from Officer Thomas B-for-Brigham “Ray” Raymond in quite some time. Not since the night all hell had broken loose and he had tacitly chosen his family and his religion over me. Funny how these interfaith engagements can go. I had thought I would never hear from Ray again, and decided that was just fine, but it seemed that this was my forty-eight hours for emotional jolts.
    “Em? Am I calling too early?”
    “Ray. Uh … hi. No, I’m up. But uh … why exactly are you calling?”
    “Because I want to talk to you.” From the tone of his voice, he thought this was funny. As in, Duh .
    “Uh, okay. So, uh … talk.”
    “No, I mean get together and talk.”
    This did not compute. In part because Thomas B. Whutzisname Raymond was not a talker. But I said, “Okay.” Why? Because sometimes I just don’t know how to say no, such as at moments like this, when I am in fact curious to know what is motivating a pig to take up the habit of sprouting wings and flying.
    “Meet me for lunch?”
    “No.”
    “Dinner?”

    “No,” I said, more firmly. “I’m willing to talk, Ray, but I don’t think I can mix it with food.”
    He chuckled. “Fair enough. Go for a walk, then?”
    I thought this through a moment. Sure, in broad daylight in a public place, we could walk and talk. “Where and when?”
    “How about right now?”
    “Mm.” I was trying to sound noncommittal, because I was in fact free, but did not want to sound easy.
    “I’ll park in front of your house, and we can just walk from there.”
    “Okay … but, wait, you don’t know where I’m living.”
    He laughed again. “Yes, I do. You’re staying with Faye, in that house she bought with Tom … before he died. By the way, I was sorry to hear about that.”
    Hearing his condolences was more than I could handle. If he wanted to get together, then fine, but not on my turf. “I’m coming downtown anyway. I can meet you at Salt Lake Roasters,” I said, venting my annoyance by asking a strict Mormon to meet me at a coffee shop. “And make it ten o’clock.” I did not want him coming to my home, and I’d be damned if he was going to see me this disheveled. I needed time to take a shower and dig out a clean pair of jeans. Why am I so annoyed ? I wondered. I’ve moved on with life. Ray is in the past. But there’s something not right about this! I said, “How the hell do you know where I live, Ray?”
    “Oh come on, Em. I’m a cop. Remember?”
     
     
    I HAD TO admit, Ray looked good. I mean good , not just his usual handsome self. He had a certain glow about him. He was smiling, and his gait seemed easier, more open. As I joined him on the sidewalk, I decided that he had come to tell me that he was getting married or something.
    He was wearing one of those nice pairs of blue jeans he filled so athletically, his usual pristine white running shoes, and a nice fleece-lined jacket. His indigo-blue eyes were bright, and his cheeks were rosy in the crisp air. He gave me a slight bow, but kept his hands in his pockets.
    I bowed, too.
    He indicated that we could start walking to the east, uphill toward the trace of the Wasatch Fault. We walked. We had gone perhaps a block and a half before he spoke, which seemed more like the Ray I was used to, the
one who spoke ten paragraphs in body