Duet for Violin and Viola in A Major

The 101 freeway between Los Angeles and Ventura was sparsely populated at eleven o'clock at night, which meant it was the best time for all-consuming construction.

This was a minor inconvenience but not a concern for Alé Melendez, who had forgotten about said construction until she ran across it on her way to Santa Barbara.

Pumping a fifteen-pound rock up and down (weight training) to the beat of a song she'd fallen in love with in a lesbian bar in Amsterdam (not dancing), she was thinking primarily about how she needed to renew her CPR certification from the Red Cross.

The construction traffic was slightly more inconvenient for the individual in the car behind her, who didn't notice the red lights ahead and barreled into the back of her sturdy Honda.

Shocked but not too deeply rattled, she cursed loudly and flipped the switch of her left-hand blinker. The individual behind her, sheepishly, followed her into the nearest left-hand shoulder of the freeway. This was simple enough, though they had to wait until they were out of the bottleneck traffic. The shoulder happened to be ample and they were in the fast lane anyway.

She didn't let herself curse at him, nor did she allow herself to slam the door of her car too hard. It was clear, however, that he'd been far too distracted by his blackberry; even as he slowly emerged from the front seat of his once-svelte, now-totaled mini BMW.

Gay, she instantly assessed his tousled dark hair, collared shirt (top unbuttoned) neat-cut sports jacket, and smart black cap-toe Oxfords. Or just cultured.

Ascertaining that he was not a gangbanger and probably not directly dangerous, she turned on the pocket flashlight and cast a glance over the damage. His car was probably undriveable, but her car had barely sustained more than a dent. She was blessed to have an SUV.

Then she turned her attention back to the man, and the remainder of her examination was near instantaneous, made with the glimpses of clarity that came with the headlights of passing cars.

Santa Monica? No, she realized, he was driving a rental. Probably he came from the East Coast, then, given the luxurious but totally inappropriate long coat strewn across its passenger seat.

Arrived today, probably LAX. Anyone driving around with a scarf and coat to Los Angeles in a mid-January heat spell couldn't have been in the area very long.

Prideful. Likes to keep up an image. Or obsessive-compulsively habitual. She noted the slightest scent of sweat as she approached him. He must have been wearing said coat and scarf until he simply couldn't bear the heat anymore.

You'd think he was an academic. Or a lawyer. She noted the leather briefcase, very slim, legal size. Or something else.

Typical coffee junkie. A Venti Starbucks hot cup sat in the cupholder, but since there was not much in the way of splattering despite the impact, it seemed to be already gone.

Musician...? He bore callouses on his left fingertips as he waved her impatiently away from looking over his shoulder, but none on the right fingertips.

He had said nothing yet, so she broke the silence.

"I am sorry for the misfortune that has befallen us."

Too many years of working with the LA legal system taught her to never accept the blame for a traffic accident or other misdemeanor. It could later bite one in the ass.

"I don't suppose you know a reputable tow service?"

His voice immediately betrayed the fact that he had lived most of his adult life in Britain.

"I have a number. Do you want to call it?"

"Would you?" he asked imperiously. "I don't care to talk on the phone."

She rankled at being commanded by this stranger, with such overstated authority in his voice, but she also knew to choose her battles wisely, so she pointedly obeyed. She felt every fiber of her being want to echo the music by Sak Noel still blaring from her car stereo: All day...all night...all day...all night...What the FUCK!

Instead of turning it down to make the call, she stepped a bit away from the cars, did the business, and stepped back again, trying to not let herself get too passive-aggressive.

"Curious: may I ask who you're texting?"

"You may ask, but you may also receive no answer," came his reply, dry and sardonic.

"Do you need to be such a hard-ass?" she demanded, losing patience. "This isn't fun for either of us, you know. This is really, really inconvenient."

"And you imagine it isn't for me?"

Chance suggested that probably, if he'd come all the way out to LA from London in one day, whatever it was he was headed to was probably more urgent, and Alé could empathize. But she had very urgent business in Santa Barbara.

"Ok, so aren't you at least going to call the rental company? I hope you have good insurance."

Without drawing his eyes away from his smartphone, he stooped and grabbed a flyer from the dashboard, pressing it into her hands. It said, Enterprize! The best way to get where you're going. And it had a significant amount of paperwork inside, as well as a prominently placed phone number to "call for information" and "help on the road."

And he was giving it to her.

This was intolerable to Alé, ever the vigilant feminist, and threw the folder on the ground with a thump.

"I'm not your servant just because I'm a woman," she declared, but suddenly as a car passed at 80mph, the folder flew open and half the papers flew across the freeway.

"Hell!"

This irritated him enough to put his phone down, where she read (at an angle) a text message in the process of 'sending': I see she's a lesbian who owns a wolfhound. Social worker. Pray for my manhood. -SH

Affronted but secretly pleased that she appeared so intimidating, Alé snarled, "Your balls are in no danger, mister, but shit, if I hadn't had that anger management course..."

He was quick to slide his phone in his pocket.

"Give me that," he said, snatching the folder from the ground. Those papers that remained were in no danger of flying away, however, since she already stomped her boot on it for their security. At least the folder cover with its important telephone number was intact, albeit dusty.

He got his phone out again, typed in the numbers to make the call, and kept pressing buttons until he apparently got to an operator, his frustration evident in his terse, jerking movements.

Apparently, after ten minutes of discussion that involved his scathing remarks and unhappy protestations on the other end of the line, he ended the call, shaking his head.

"They deny even having rented the car to me," he said, his tone acerbic. "I don't know what's wrong with this country."

"There's lots wrong with this country," Alé replied. "Well, I think I'm going to go now. If you like, I could give you a ride to someplace that isn't a dark freeway so you can figure out this shit in someplace a bit more safe."

"Oh, delightful, a greasy spoon," he said joylessly. "'American home cooking.' Weak drip coffee. A smelly one-stall unisex bathroom. Why on earth are we waiting?"

Alé sighed. "Mister, I'm being nice because I want to be."

"No," he disagreed, back to texting again, no doubt telling his gay lover uncomplimentary observations about, she imagined, the coffee stains on her pants-leg, the smell of the dandruff shampoo she used, the state of her acne (at forty one!), and probably the bulge in her denim jacket-pocket that hid an unlicensed pistol.

Or, she reflected as the club song continued to pound from her car: Johnny, La gente esta muy loca...What the fuck! -SH

"No," he said again, dispassionately, "You're being nice because you force yourself to be."

"A damned sight better than being an ass to someone who just offered to help you out."

He didn't reply, obviously because he didn't care, she thought, until she saw him put away the phone and make eye contact with her.

"You're absolutely right, Miss Melendez. My behavior is beyond questionable. If you'd be so kind, I would be very thankful for a ride."

Despite herself, she smiled...he undoubtedly noticed the name badge she forgot to take off after leaving the office...but only allowing a corner of her mouth to go up in a smirk.

"Why, don't mind if I do," she said, dropping into a BBC British accent that was reminiscent of Christiane Amanpour.

So saying, she motioned that he should get into the passenger side, taking off her name badge and pocketing it immediately.

Just trying on a new coat. Like it?