Miles City, Montana never entered into the conversation.
The town never crossed their minds. Perhaps it no longer existed, or, if it did, all that remained were ragtag memories of drunken soldiers asleep in the snow.
The two of them had other things to discuss. Over breakfast at the Hotel Bel-Air, each felt the hunger to converse that follows a fallow stretch of silence.
The woman in the white dress and the woman in the Merrill hiking boots fell into an effortless exchange. Each marveled at the life of a hummingbird. They talked about their mutual love of thunder, especially the first serrated crackle.
They revealed a few cautious glimpses of growing up. They sprinted through short slivers of other topics, from pizza to gardening, racing along the whitewater rapids of conversation.
What they didn’t talk about was what they did for a living. If either felt uncomfortable with the probability of the subject coming up, their hesitations were well hidden.
After a few minutes, they introduced themselves to one another.
“I’m Cecile,” said the woman in the long white dress.
“I’m Dorothy,” said the woman in the dusty Merrill hiking boots.
“What a lovely name,” said Cecile.
“There doesn’t seem to be many of us. I suppose we fell out of fashion.”
“How unfortunate. How sad not to hear such a charming name more often.”
And then, her guard dropped like the sword of a soldier in Miles City, Montana, Dorothy lowered her voice. Her tone absorbed an intensity she seemed unable to disguise.
“Well, I’m afraid there’s not much of anything charming about my life right now. I don’t know how long I can stay here. It’s complicated. I’m more or less running for my life. Actually, I am running for my life.”
“Well, Dorothy, that makes two of us.”
