OUTSIDE, AN ICY wind blew. A woman reporter rushed at him as he came down the station’s steps to the sidewalk. He did not know where she’d come from, the bushes perhaps.
“No comment,” Victor said. He quickened his pace.
The reporter quickened her pace.
“Just one question,” she said and thrust a small recorder toward him.
“No comment.”
Victor walked faster.
The reporter stayed with him.
“I’d like to ask just one question. If . . .”
Vic stopped. The reporter bumped into him. Her recorder clattered to the sidewalk. She snatched a pen and pad from her purse without a blink.
“Just one quest—”
“I’d like to ask you just one question,” Victor said. “What word is it you don’t understand in ‘no comment’? Are you a total idiot, or just too callous to give a shit?”
The woman’s face reddened. “I’m just trying to do my job.”
“And I’m just trying to live my life. Which do you think I care about more? Your job or my life? Now leave me alone before I shove that pen so far up your ass it comes out that pretty fucking mouth. Do you understand me now?”
He stalked off, blood hot as lit gasoline in his veins.
At the corner, he looked back sharply. The reporter stood there, watching him. What he’d said to her was not how he wished to conduct himself. But he felt better than he had in two days. A man had to speak in earthly terms at times, to stress a point.
He yanked the collar of his denim jacket up tight to his neck. He strode quickly.
The cold settled in on him. It was one of those days when the temperature dropped throughout the afternoon, and as soon as the sun set the air drew close and frigid and you knew autumn was not coming back and winter had you in its cold clutches.